Open and Shut
by Adrenaline Fueled
Summary: There's a serial killer loose in the city. The police are getting nowhere, and the world's greatest Vigilante refuses to let any killer remain free.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer The Punisher is a trademark of Marvel. All other characters are my own.

Open and Shut

New York, 13:07 hours

It was a perfect summer's day in Richland, the kind of day that made most people glad to be alive. Daryl sat on the steps of his apartment, drinking a beer and watching the ladies go by, dressed just right for the sun's heat. Life was good.

He finished his beer and went inside, looking for a refill. A glance in the fridge confirmed his worst fears: "Damn, out of beer, just my bloody luck..."

Before he could go out to the nearest shop, before he had time to even turn around, a strong hand grabbed his hair, yanking his head back. He went to cry out, but there was no sound. The forensics team would later conclude that the victim had died before hitting the floor, his throat cut wide. The open throat killer had just claimed victim number 5.

New York, 19:47 hours

It was getting late over in George Street, and it looked like a quiet night for a change. That would change soon enough; nothing stayed quiet for long when Frank Castle was nearby. The alleyways were pretty much empty. Over the years, some of the scum that Frank hunted seemed to have developed a sort of sixth sense; something that alerted them of danger, warning that the Punisher was near. Those that didn't develop this sixth sense didn't last long. Take the dealer in the corner of this alley for example, still blissfully unaware of Frank's towering presence. He hadn't noticed the other dealers disappear as Castle drew near. It was to be his downfall.

The dealer turned, seeing Castle for the first time. "And what do you want? You looking to score bro?"

"You're 'Big Benny'?" asked Frank, barely able to hide the disdain, the disgust in his voice.

"I certainly am. You looking for some coke? Yes sir, won't find a better supplier or any finer product anywhere in this city."

Frank only just managed to stop himself from killing the man with his bare hands, mentally picturing a bullet with Benny's name on it. "I'm more interested in information actually. I was told you were the man to talk to."

Frank didn't explain that the man who had told him about Benny was currently in hospital with his arm broken in four places. He'd been lucky. Benny's face broke into a wide smile. "You've come to the right man! I hear about everything that happens in this city. What do you wanna know? Oh, and, eh, how much money are we talking about?"

Seconds later, Benny was smashed against the wall. Bent double, he was barely able to support himself, winded from the blow. "Who the hell..."

He didn't get any further. Frank pulled out a 9mm and put a bullet in each of his knees. Benny collapsed onto the floor, howling in agony. Frank knelt down next to him, and spoke quietly. "Tell me what you know about the murders Benny. Who's behind them?"

Benny hesitated. "What murders? I know nothing about no murders, I swear!"

Punisher pressed the gun barrel right against Benny's temple, and cocked it. "That's a double negative you shit-head. You know exactly what murders I'm talking about. The one's that have been making front-page news for the last fortnight. The one's the police have no comment on. The one's every man, woman and child have been talking about. Tell me who's behind the open throat murders."

"I don't know, I don't know!" wailed Benny.

"Well, then you're no good to me at all, are you? May as well be dead," said Frank, applying first pressure on the trigger.

"Wait!"

Frank waited. He had all the time in the world. After a second, Benny continued. "The word is that someone in West Drive has been boasting about how he's mates with the open throat killer, how they go way back."

"Give me a name Benny." Second pressure on the trigger.

"Wilson Green! Wilson Green! You can find him in the Memorial apartments! It's the truth, I swear!"

Frank paused. "Thank you." Third, and final pressure on the trigger.

Castle walked off, leaving Benny's body as a warning to the other dealers. Benny had ruined countless lives, peddling all manners of filth. No tears would be shed for him. Frank had learnt what he'd needed. He now had a name, something to start from. He hated serial killers. They were dangerous, because as long as they remained uncaught, the bodies would keep on turning up, at least until the killer ran out of victims. The police had only found one pattern n the victims so far. They'd all gone to the same school. Well, if the killer had a thing against pupils from Richland High, he had thousands of potential victims. Everyday the killer was loose, lives were in danger. The police had hit a brick wall. No one was speaking. Well, people spoke to Frank. And when he found the killer, he'd stop them the best way he knew.

Time to find out what Wilson Green knew.


	2. Chapter 2

New York – Dirty Barry's Bar 

Dirty Barry's was crowded tonight, and everyone was in high spirits. Barry's wasn't exactly one of the friendliest drinking stations in the city; it wasn't rare to find the cities most wanted criminals trading stories of their favourite bloodbaths and heists. What was rare was to find a drinker who _didn't _have a criminal record. In fact, the only real exceptions were the lawyers who met their regular clients here. Any naive tourists or anyone else foolish enough to stray into Barry's soon found the error of their ways and usually made a swift exit. Those who pushed their luck would end up in hospital, nursing their bloodied nose and broken egos. It had become one of life's many certainties... everybody dies, everyone plays taxes and Dirty Barry's would never be listed in any tourist guide.

'Dirty' Barry himself was behind the bar tonight, along with the regular staff. As the owner, Barry wasn't typically serving drinks, but tonight he made an exception. Tonight was a special occasion. One of the regular drinkers, Wilson 'Gatecrasher' Green had won his appeal that day, and was once again a free man. He was also, of course, as guilty as Satan. That was the beauty of the justice system after all. You pay the right person the right amount of money and you could, quite literally, get away with murder.

The bar was full as the criminal fraternity celebrated along with Green. Any excuse for a drink. The party was now in full swing and Barry couldn't help imagining all that cash rolling in. The thought of all the money he must be making was probably the reason why Barry, who usually was renowned for having an eye on everyone in the bar, hadn't noticed the stranger sitting by the door.

If Barry _had_ been on the ball, he might've wondered why the stranger was the only person in the bar who didn't have a drink in their hand. He might've been suspicious as to how the stranger's face was hidden in shadow, even though the rest of the bar was well lit. But none of this occurred to Barry, as he smiled and wondered what he would buy with tonight's earnings.

Wilson stumbled over to the bar.

"Another round over here Barry!" called out Wilson as he leaned against the small space available at the bar, knocking into the man next to him. The man turned to face Wilson, and although he couldn't figure out why, warning bells sounded out in Wilson's head. But between the warnings in his head and the amount of alcohol that he'd drunk that night, there was no contest.

"You must be Wilson" said the man. It didn't seem to be so much a question, as much as a cold statement.

"What if I am?" replied a slightly wary Wilson, as his eyes scanned over the man before him.

"I hear you're best mates with the open throat killer..."

Wilson warmed slightly. Just another bozo who wanted to hear tales about killers. He should've guessed by the trench the man was wearing. Itwas always a source of wonder to Wilson that people were so obsessed with death and violence.When the first death was on the news, Wilson had recognised the MO, the victim, had known exactly who was behind the killings. It had only been a casual remark to the crook next to him, and suddenly Wilson was some sort of celebrity. He'd got more free drinks in the month since the killings had started then in the rest of his life.Wilson started the well-practised lines, relatively sure there was another free drink on the way.

"Hah. Any closer and we'd be brothers. We go way back. Man, there was this one time when we both held up a bank..."

"What's his name?" the man in the trench interrupted, a cold edge to his voice. Wilson stood back, surprised at the sudden question. People were always keen to hear tales of the killer, but no-one, NO-ONE, had ever once asked for the killer's name. It was an unwritten rule, it just wasn't done.

"What makes you think I'm going to tell you that! I ain't gonna just tell anyone, fool. I don't even know your name!"

"My name's Frank." The growl in the man's voice would have silenced most men, but Wlson was oblivious.

"Well, Frank, you're starting to piss me off. Who said you could ask questions? Get lost, before I have you thrown out."

Frank looked at his options. Two colts hung by his side, and he had plenty of ammo on him. He looked around the bar. He recognised a lot of the faces, a lot of people who deserved an early death. But there were also people he didn' recognise, people drowning the sorrows of another awful day. The place was just too public. Most of the guys in here were too drunk too shoot in a straight line, and he couldn't risk any stray bullets picking off an innocent. He knew what it was like to seepeople you love killed by stray bullets. As long as he could help it, no innocent would have to suffer as he had suffered.

He stood up and looked Wilson in the eyes. Wilson put it down to mixing his drinks, but for an one instant, Frank's eyes seemdto hold a universe full of rage and hurt in them. Wilson blinked. Then Frank walked away.It wasn't like him toturn away from a crook,andthere was a nagging voice in his head, pointing out all the guilty people enjoying themselves as Frank walked past.There'd be plenty of time to find out what Wilson knew, in a place where no innocent could be harmed.Then Frank would find out what he needed to know. But for now, he wouldn't risk a firefight leaking out onto the streets.

"And stay out!" Wilson yelled out after him, causing a few heads to turn. The words bounced off Frank's back, as he pushed through the doors, past the stranger,and onto the streets.Frankcould wait.

Wilson settled back down, and was soon enjoying himself again as he had another drink. He felt on top of the world, and he loved the view.

Behind the bar, Barry replaced the gun under the shelf. He hadn't liked he look of the man who'd been talking to Wilson, and he's been ready to put a stop to any trouble that started. But for once it looked like the night would end without any bloodshed. Barry poured himself a drink, and calmed himself down.

By the door, the stranger stood up and left, still unnoticed by either Barry or Wilson.

Several hours later, Wilson made his way drunkenly to the flats he called home. He yelled a farewell to his friends, before practically falling through the doors, then made it into the elevator as the doors began to close behind him. None of Wilson's friends saw Frank step out of the shadows and through the closing doors. Frank noted which floor the lift stopped at, then began his way up the steps to the ninth floor, walking as if he had all the time in the world.

He reached the ninth floor the liftand took a look around. The lift doors were closing, and Frank was sure he caught a glimpse of someone still inside. The lift began making its way back down, and Frank was thinking aboutchasing the liftdown to the ground floor, but then he noticed one of the apartment doors had been left open. Outside the door lay the coat Wilson had been wearing. Frank pulled a colt from its holster, silently opened the door fully, then stepped inside.

Inside, the place was in darkness. Wilson must've been too drunk to bother with lights. Listening out for any sound, Frank made his way around the rooms. The silence was almost deafening as Frank stepped into the bedroom. Something was very wrong. A figure lay on the bed. But that wasn't what grabbed Frank's attention; the all too familiar smell of gunpowder filled the room. Frank flicked the light switch, his Colt trained on the figure lying on the bed. He needn't have worried. The room fully illuminated, Frank could clearly see that the figure on the bed didn't pose a threat. The lifeless eyes of the corpse stared straight through Castle, a red dot painted on it's forehead.

Wilson Green was dead.


	3. Chapter 3

Frank moved quickly, ignoring the corpse on the bed. The smell of cordite, the blood rolling down in a stream from the wound; he had only been killed moments ago, within the last couple of minutes. If Frank wanted a chance of catching the killer, every second was important. He moved quickly through the apartment, making sure the killer wasn't still in any of the rooms. Satisfied, Frank sprinted out of the door into the corridor. Glancing at the lift, Frank noticed that it was on the ground floor. It was infuriating, knowing that he had come this close to passing the killer. Frank decided to take the stairs, practically throwing himself down them.

Less than a minute later, Frank burst into the cold night air and took a good look around the street. There were a few people about, the odd squad who inhabited the streets in the early hours. Just across from the entrance, a bored hooker sauntered up and down the sidewalk, waiting for some business. She glanced over, and noticed Frank. Frank strode over.

"Excuse me."

The hooker gave him a slightly puzzled look. It had been a long time since someone had said that to her. Frank continued.

"Did you see anyone leave the apartments just now?"

"Sure sugar. Some punk came flying out of that building like the hounds of hell were behind them."

"Which way did they go?"

"They leapt onto a motorbike and flew off toward the bridge."

Frank cursed under his breath. There was no way he could catch up with the killer now.

"Did you see what he looked like? Anything at all?"

The hooker raised an eyebrow.

"You a cop or something mister? You're asking a lot of questions."

"I'm no cop. Please, help me out here."

The hooker sighed. Everybody seemed to want some help, but nobody ever had anytime to help her. She was about to walk away when she caught a glimpse of the man's shirt. The symbol of a skull was on it. She took a good look at the man. Could this really be the Punisher? He certainly didn't look like any cop she had seen before. What the hell, she could do with some good karma. She decided to help.

"Well, first off, I don't know whether it was a 'him.' Didn't get that good a look. But what I did notice was their long black hair. Really caught my eye."

"What about the bike?"

"It was red."

Frank stared at her in a mixture of despair and disbelief.

"Do you know how many red motorbikes there are in this city? Didn't you catch the make? Anything to set it apart from the thousands of red bikes in the area?"

"Sorry hun, I'm no biker gal."

It looked like it wasn't going to be a good night.

"Thanks." Frank handed her the cash he had found on 'Big' Benny and walked back to the apartment, leaving the girl wide-eyed as she counted the cash.

"God bless you Mr Punisher!" she called out after him, but he had already disappeared back into the building.

Frank stepped into Wilson's apartment for the second time that night. Surely, there must be something here that could help him. He began looking through Wilson's bedroom, but there wasn't much to search through. The room was mostly empty. A few dirty magazines lay next to the bed, and atelevision sat in the corner. After a fruitless search, Frank sat down on the bed, next to Wilson, who ignored this intrusion.Itseemed he had taken the secret of the 'Open Throat' killer to his grave. Frank was about to give the apartment one last going over, to make sure he hadn't missed anything, when he heard someone open the front door. Frank slipped into the shadows as the footsteps approached the bedroom. There was a sharp knock.

"Wilson, I know you're in there. I'm sorry, but I need the money you owe."

A dark silence filled the air and Frank trained his gun on the doorway.

"Quit playing Wilson. Look, let's talk this over. Come to some sort of deal."

The door slowly opened and the wise guy walked into the room.

"Typical, couldn't hold your drink eh? Come on, time to talk. Wilson. Wilson? Holy shit, is that blood, Wilson? Hell, who did this to you Wilson?"

In answer, Frank stepped from the shadows and shot the wise guy twice in the head. The guy was obviously part of the criminal fraternity, and Frank would have got round to him sooner or later. Frank preferred sooner. Holstering his gun, he headed for the exit. It had been a long night, and he hadn't really managed to get anywhere. Tomorrow, he'd start again, find this serial killer. But what he needed right now was a quick sleep. It was getting early, and he'd spent most of the night on this wild goose chase. Time to call it a night. Frank walked out of the apartment and straight into a thug.

"What the hell? Where's the boss? Guys, quick! It's the pun..."

Frank recovered immediately from the surprise, and quickly broke the thug's neck. It was, however, too late. To the right of the door, a group of three thugs stood by the window. To the left, another three were waiting by the stairs. Two wise guys stood by the lift. Eight goons in all and each one was looking at him. More worryingly, each one was aiming a gun at him. Frank dived back into Wilson's apartment, just as a shotgun blast blew a chunk out of the wall. Taking shelter behind an old sofa, Castle checked his guns. Two colts. Two spare clips.

Frank shrugged; he'd faced worse odds. Looked like tonight wasn't going to be as much of a waste as he'd thought. It seemed there were going to be eight more freaks getting their dues early. The commotion outside suddenly went quiet. Silence. Then, an explosion threw the door off its hinges, sending it flying straight through the apartment. Then the goons came flooding in through the burning doorway. Frank stood up from behind the sofa, and opened fire.


	4. Chapter 4

Moments earlier, there had been a huge argument in the corridor. In the end, it had been decided that Clint, being the newest member of the gang, would have the 'privilege' of going first through the door. The door the Punisher had just dived through.

"Think about it Clint," commanded one of the other members. "You're going to have the first chance to nail the Punisher! Think about the rep you'll get! Babes will throw themselves at you! You'll never have to pay for a drink ever again! You'll be right there at the top of the gang."

Clint shrugged. He knew damn well that the reason he was going through first was that the others thought the first guy would be shot instantly. How pathetic, a bunch of armed, grown thugs frightened of just one man. Hard nut, cold-blooded killers, and not one of them had the nerve to take on one guy. Well, he would show them.

"Hand me the shotgun" Clint calmly said. The rest of the gang looked at each other, debating hurriedly. Finally, the skinhead with the shotgun handed it over, quietly sure he'd have it back soon enough. Clint made sure the safety was off, then walked calmly over to the door. He'd killed before, and he wasn't going to let some ageing relic end his life tonight.

As always, Clint was carrying a small amount of C4; these days it seemed everyone had to have a trademark. Every other crook seemed to be a 'Desert eagle' Dave or a 'Machete' Mark. 'C4' Clint seemed to have a ring to it. Besides, he couldn't think of any cooler weapons beginning with 'C'. Either way, it looked like his trademark would come in useful tonight. He set the explosive around the doorway, quickly and efficiently. It wasn't much; C4 wasn't cheap after all. Bu there was enough so that if this Punisher freak was anywhere near the door, he was gonna be in for a world of pain. Time to go in with a bang. Everyone backed off, and Clint triggered the C4.

The door flew like a bullet through the air, it's steel form ripping through the rooms. Clint rushed to the smoking doorway, shotgun raised. Now was Clint's time, now was his chance to shine. With any luck, the stupid idiot Castle had been waiting by the door to ambush them. Either way, if the fool was still alive, he was going to be reeling. The Punisher didn't stand a chance. This was it. Clint was going to finally be someone. As he stormed through the smoking doorway, the one thought filling his mind that this was going to be the first night of the rest of his life. A heartbeat later, the bullet cracked through Clint's skull, killing him instantly.

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A small part of Castle always felt sorry for the first guy through the door. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd been in a situation like this; stuck in a room with a bunch of people outside wanting to kill him. And every single time, the first guy through the door was the first guy to die. No exceptions. Lambs to the slaughter, every one of them. They never even had a chance to take a shot at him. But hey, this was no game. There were no rules that Frank abided by when it came to criminals. So, as always, the first guy through the door took the bullet to the head. But the floodgates seemed to be open, as the seven other criminals practically flew through the door, spraying bullets in Frank's direction. Frank squeezed another shot before launching himself to the bedroom, just as the sofa he'd been hiding behind was ripped to shreds by the hail of bullets. Thug number two took Frank's bullet in the chest and collapsed just in the doorway, coughing blood up as he fought for every breath. After a few seconds, he lost the fight.

The remaining six spread out, trying to find cover in the sparsely furnished room. Castle appeared briefly in the bedroom doorway and fired a barrage of shots into thug number three, before disappearing again, as bullets filled the space he had just vacated. Silence filled the apartment. It wasn't a pleasant silence.

"Steve! Go and get him," whispered one of the goons. Steve looked back in disbelief.

"Are you trying to be funny! Anyway, who made you boss Matt?"

"Well, Adam doesn't seem to be in a position to lead us," Matt muttered, motioning to the remains of thug number three, "and I'm next in line to be boss. Now listen to me, this is the only way any of us are going to survive this."

"You mean the only way _you're_ going to survive this."

"Now, this is no time to argue, just do..."

Matt got no further as a single bullet passed through his heart. If he was capable of such an action, Castle might've smiled at the stupidity of the street thugs. All their attention on whom should be boss, none on Castle. Fine by him. Gave him time to line up his shots. He disappeared back into the darkness.

One of the thugs took it into his head to try and sneak upon Frank. Having retrieved his shotgun, the skinhead slowly edged his way to the door, gun trained on the entrance. After what felt like an age, he finally reached the doorway, and his ape-like skull was confused. What was he to do next? He hadn't expected to make it this far. After a brief hesitation, he took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway, firing blindly into the darkened room. A few seconds went past and the goon was pleasantly surprised to find that he was still alive. However, he couldn't see the Punisher anywhere. He was still looking around when the Punisher stepped from behind the door, and pushed it shut. The skinhead turned just in time to see Frank fire the colt at point-blank range. Frank picked up the shotgun

Outside, the remaining thugs heard the shot, and as another venomous silence descended, there were no doubts as to the fate of their comrade.

"There's no way that I'm going into that room," stated a fear struck crook.

"Damn straight," began another villain. "To go in there would be certain dea..."

The sentence remained unfinished, as Frank came out of the bedroom fast, firing a shot from his colt that caught the villain in the face. The last two quickly opened fire as Frank dived to the ground. Sliding along the floor, he unloaded the clip in the direction of one of the remaining losers, who fell to the floor like a lead weight.

The last thug fired wildly in Frank's direction, screaming like a dying banshee. And then there was the sound that was even worse, at least from the thug's point of view; the click-click of an empty clip.

Franks stepped from his cover, wielding the shotgun he had just picked up. He advanced on the criminal, until he towered over the trembling killer, who was busy crying out for his life.

"Please Mister Punisher, don't kill me, please, I'm not worth it."

"You know anything about the Open Throat killer?" interrupted Frank.

"What? I don't know what you're talking about," whimpered the confused criminal.

"Didn't think you would," stated the Punisher. The shot echoed around the room, and Punisher set to searching the bodies. Apart from a few additions to his armoury and a small amount of cash, there was nothing really useful on any of the corpses. In retrospect, Frank wasn't sure what he was expecting; maybe a quick memo saying who the Open Throat killer was. Well, no such luck.

An hour later, Castle collapsed onto the hard mattress that graced his current safe house. Tomorrow, he would find out who the killer was. But for now, Frank felt he deserved a rest.


	5. Chapter 5

**FRANK'S SAFEHOUSE. **

It wasn't like Frank to sleep in, and today was no exception. After a few hours of sleep, Frank was up and eager to get to work. When he was in Vietnam, Frank had been used to getting by on next to no sleep. Now, he found himself again at war, and although the battlefield had changed, the same military training kicked in again. While most of the city was still asleep, Frank went through the file he had accumulated on the 'Open Throat' killings. This would be the twentieth time, but Frank assiduously combed through the file as if he had never read it before. Absolutely anything to do with the killings was in the file. Newspaper cuttings, police files, forensics reports, everything Frank could get his hands on. After a couple of hours of searching, Frank dropped the file on the floor, and headed for the door. He hadn't found anything new in the file, but he wasn't out of ideas yet. He certainly wasn't going to consider giving up now. For a moment he thought about all the work he had done just into finding Wilson. The bones broken, the snitches interrogated, the hours spent observing his targets... He couldn't let that all go to waste.

Frank checked his watch as he stepped outside. The cafes should be about to open. Living in a safe house, Frank liked it to have as few links to the outside world as possible. There were no 'luxuries' of any description. There was no television, no computer and definitely no Internet. As a result, sometimes Frank had to make use of the various cyber-cafes dotted around the city. It was amazing how much information a standard 'google' search could turn up. If you knew the right places, you could find out practically anything. Who needed Microchip anyway? Besides, you could get a good coffee at some of the cafes, and that was something Microchip had never been good at.

'CONNECTIONS' CAFE – CITY CENTER 

Frank settled down in the corner of the cafe and took a sip of his coffee. The cafe was mostly empty, which was fine by Frank. He didn't come here for the socialising. A couple of office workers were ordering their coffees from the waitress, a bored girl who looked like she was suffering from having had too much drink the night before. An old man sat in the opposite corner, apparently asleep. Over his head, a television showed the early morning news. The top story was all about some celebrity who'd just become the official ambassador for some charity or the other. Just in time for his new film, how convenient. Today, Frank had to settle for second billing. A skull emblem appeared in the corner of the screen, as the TV switched to a reporter standing in front of Wilson's apartment. The Police had apparently confirmed thatten bodies had been discovered and conceded the deaths may be of a suspicious nature. However, the reporter, convinced he was onto the story of a lifetime, droned on about an eyewitness account that had been leaked, naming the vigilante known as the Punisher as the man responsible. The way the reporter was going on, you'd have thought the president had just been caught in bed with Osama. Seemed like a typical bloodthirsty journalist, suffering from a bad case of logorrhea. He reminded Castle of McTeer, but without any of the redeeming traits. McTeer, theman who had found his family that fateful day in the park... Frank took another sip of coffee. There was no point getting caught up in the past. That could kill a man.

Frank returned his attention back to the news. It seemed that all ten deaths were going to be pinned on him. Well, they were nine-tenths right, and Frank wasn't about to write a letter of complaint anytime soon. There was no mention of the Open Throat murders. It struck Frank that as everyone would think he had killed Wilson, no one would look for a link to the Open Throat killings. Only Frank knew that someone had killed Wilson before Frank had a chance to find out who the Open Throat killer was. It was one hell of a coincidence, Wilson taking that knowledge to his grave, minutes before Frank had a chance to interrogate him.

Frank turned to the computer, and opened up a search engine. It was time to find out what links Wilson had to the murders.

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CITY 

Grace slid out into the cold morning air and began walking along the sidewalk. The streets were starting to fill up, as the white-collared masses began their daily journey. Her husband had left for his distinguished desk job in the financial district ten minutes earlier, and wouldn't be back until late in the evening. Grace would usually also be on the way to her job at a big shot software company, but today she had arranged to have the day off, a secret she had kept from her husband. She could do without all the questions. It wasn't that she had a hard job lying to her husband; she had lied to him many times, as she was certain he had lied to her about all those late nights at the office. But today had to be kept absolutely quiet. She didn't care too much if her husband found out about her affairs, she knew he couldn't take the high moral ground. But if he'd found out what today was about... well, her life as she knew it would be over.

At the mere thought of such an unholy possibility, Grace quickened her pace, eager to get today finished as soon as possible. The crowds began to swell, and without warning an overweight man bumped into her. Adrenaline flooded through Grace's veins, as her fingers dived into her handbag, dancing over the weapon she kept there. To her relief, the man walked on, unconcerned and unrepentant for walking into Grace. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. This whole business of a serial killer had really shaken her up. Eventually, she regained her composure and was able to calmly close her handbag, the knife therein remaining undisturbed. After taking another deep breath, she set off again, this time a little faster than before. She marched for what felt like many tens of miles, although it was in fact only several blocks. Finally she reached her destination, her overactive imagination transforming the doors she stood in front of into the gateway to some ancient mythical city. Behind these doors, she hoped that maybe she could find something that had been missing for far too long now: the feeling that she was safe. She tried the door and when she discovered it was open, entered. The doors shut behind her, and in the darkness that lay before her, she could just make out the shape of a man with his back to her. He finally spoke, his voice quiet.

"I was wondering when you'd show up Grace. There is much that needs to be discussed."

And in that moment, Grace felt anything but safe.


	6. Chapter 6

**'CONNECTIONS' CAFE – CITY CENTER**

Frank sat at the computer, occasionally drinking his coffee as he scrolled through the web pages that had been brought up. He'd been sitting there for a round an hour and so far, he had found nothing associating Wilson to any of the murders. No links to the victims, to the places; it seemed there was no link whatsoever. Frank paused and thought it over. Wilson had known who the Open Throat killer was, Frank was sure of it. He was sure that was the reason Wilson was now in the morgue. He was sure there must be answers here somewhere. All Frank had to do was ask the  
right questions. Unfortunately, finding what the right questions were would take time. It would involve going through Wilson's life with a comb, searching for anyone he'd known who could be linked with the murders. And all of a sudden, Frank felt like he was running out of time.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he looked around. Something was wrong. The cafe was still relatively quiet; shouldn't there be more people in here by now? Frank glanced to the waitress. She was looking straight at him. She was also trembling uncontrollably. Something was very wrong. A look at the door revealed that there was now a well-built man guarding it. He was dressed casually, but the way he was poised screamed professional. Although the guy could possibly have been some sort of mob enforcer, Frank's gut told him that he was looking at a plainclothes cop. At a guess, Frank reckoned the place would be swarming with police within 30 seconds.

Very slowly, Frank took out some change to pay for the coffees and left it on the table. Then he suddenly stood up and started striding quickly toward the kitchen doors. The man at the door swore quietly and began whispering furiously into the top of his shirt, where Frank surmised a hidden microphone linked him with the rest of the boys in blue. 20 seconds. Frank was getting close to the kitchen doors when he sensed the doorman moving toward him, fast. It was a clumsy attempt at a tackle, which Frank neatly side-stepped, allowing the man to crash into the tables. Leaving the man to untangle himself, Frank ran toward the kitchen doors. He had almost reached them when they flew open and three uniformed officers stormed into the cafe, 10 seconds ahead of Frank's schedule.

"Police! Everyone on the floor, now!" barked one of the cops. People started screaming, as Frank spun on his heels and headed for the main door. The plainclothes cop had just made it back up to his feet when Frank cannonballed into him, knocking him back down to the floor. But before he could make it anywhere near the door, more officers appeared at the main door, screaming at him to put his hands up and surrender. Frank froze, trapped between the two exits. He counted six policemen in total, including the plainclothes guy busy struggling to his feet; six against one. Normally Frank wouldn't have thought twice about those odds, but this wasn't a bunch of Mafioso thugs that Frank could simply kill. These were all cops, people who Frank respected. They didn't deserve punishing.

Frank retreated to the middle of the room as the cops began cautiously moving toward him, guns raised.

"Get down on the ground, do it now!" yelled one of policemen, advancing slowly. If Frank didn't move soon, it'd be too late, and people would definitely get hurt. He had to stall them.

"Do you know who I am?" asked Frank, in his cold monotone voice. The plainclothes cop gave a quick smile. "You bet your ass we know who you are. But do you know who we are?"

Frank shot him a puzzled look.

"Joel Stone, commanding officer of the Frank Castle task force, at your service." He grinned again.

"Well, actually, not so much 'at your service,' more like 'here to kick your ass. You got balls, I give you that. I mean, what were you thinking? Spending over an hour in a public place, the morning after murdering ten people!"

"NINE people," interrupted Frank.

Joel carried on as if he hadn't heard Frank. "Seriously, did you think no-one would recognise you? There are photos of you on the news! What are you, thick or something?"

Joel had no choice but to look away as Frank's eyes pierced him. With great effort, he looked Frank in the eye again, then spoke again, a commanding tone to his voice.

"Now, we know you're always armed. Throw your piece to the floor."

As Frank reached inside his coat pocket, he could feel six pairs of eyes locked onto his every move.

"Don't try anything funny now Mr Castle. Use your left hand, two fingers on the handle, then drop it on the floor."

Frank took the gun out as instructed, then paused, holding the gun for all to see. The Task-force visibly tensed up.

"No funny business now," repeated Joel, his voice dripping with apprehension. Frank simply nodded, then dropped the gun.

If you were to ask anyone who saw what happened next, they would all agree that they had never seen a man move that fast. As the gun fell, Frank kicked a nearby chair into Joel's stomach and knocking the unfortunate officer into two of the others. Before the chair had connected with it's target, Frank had already span around low as he pulled a second gun from his coat, all in one fluid movement. Without any hesitation, Frank fired a shot.

The bullet found it's target half a second later; a fire extinguisher on the wall. With a loud crack, foam flew all over the place, distracting the other three policemen for a second; long enough for Frank to make his move. Frank launched himself toward two of the men, slamming into them with the force of a train. The men collapsed to the floor, all the air knocked out of their lungs. The sixth man swung his gun at Frank's head, an attack that narrowly missed. Frank dodged to the side and brought his knee up into the guy's stomach. The guy crumpled into a heap as Frank reached out and delicately took the gun from the man's outstretched hand. For an instant, the cafe was in near silence, interrupted only by muffled groans as the officers tried to find the energy to get back to their feet. Frank turned and walked over to the entrance, and disappeared into the city.

**THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CITY**

Standing in the darkness, Grace hesitated. Inside she was trying her best to overcome the overwhelming desire to turn and run. As if sensing her doubts, the shadowy figure calmly spoke. "I apologise for the darkness. Come on through, let us try and sort out this mess we have found ourselves in."

As he finished the sentence, the man walked to the end of the room and opened a door, suddenly letting light crash through into the room. The silhouetted figure turned to Grace and beckoned her to follow, before stepping through the doorway. Still fighting her inclination to get out of there, she took a deep breath, shrugged her shoulders, then stepped slowly forward, further into the lair.

The doorway led into a small room, sparsely furnished and well lit in stark contrast to the room she had come from. Grace looked round cautiously. In the corner sat a cheap television, connected to an old games console. An old sofa was against one wall, angled towards the telly. Next to the sofa was a small coffee table, a single empty beer bottle gracing its surface. The place had the appearance of a cheaply furnished bachelor pad.

The man appeared in a doorway. He was an average sized man, but well built. He had short, messy black hair, along with a handsome face. He wore an old dark blue Nike jacket over a plain white T-shirt, and was wearing a pair of ragged jeans. To Grace, he gave the impression of being an easygoing man. Not rich enough to afford the latest gear, but not exactly poor either. He spoke softly. "Take a seat Grace. Want anything to drink?"

"I'm, erm, ok..."

Grace settled uneasily onto the sofa, clutching her handbag close to her. The man walked into the room, carrying a chair. He set it down opposite the sofa and sat down to face Grace.

"Long time no see. So, how's life treating you? I hear you've become quite a success..."

Grace interrupted him with a shake of her head.

"Cut the crap. We both know why I'm here."

The man gave a small, sad smile. "The open throat killings."

Grace involuntarily shuddered. "So many dead; Tony, Nick, Jamie..."

The man carried on for her, his voice devoid of all emotion, "Charlene, Daryl, Pete; all of them gone."

Grace raised her eyes to look at the man before her, eyes full of terror. "That only leaves you, me and Debbie."

The man looked back at her with his stone cold expression, and gave a small nod. "Just you, me and Debbie," he repeated.

Suddenly Grace stood up and pulled a small gun from her handbag, and pointed it at the man. "You bastard, you killed them all didn't you!" she spat.

Very slowly, the man got up onto his feet.

"Don't move!" shouted Grace, her face a mask of terror.

The man took a step toward her. His easygoing demeanour nothing more then a distant memory, Grace couldn't shake the feeling that in spite of the fact she was the one holding the gun, this man was much more of a threat to her.

"Damn it, I said don't move!" screamed Grace, a voice broken and strained. All of a sudden, the man pulled out a gun from his jacket and brought the muzzle to rest against Grace's forehead.

"Don't play with guns Grace, you might end up getting hurt," said the man. Then he smiled, an icy smile that chilled Grace to her core.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Excuse me?" The elderly librarian peered curiously at the smartly dressed man before him. Mr Castle straightened his tie and gave a reassuring smile.

"The local papers from 1992 and 1993. Could I see them please?"

"I'll have a look for you now sir." The old man bowed slightly and retreated into his musty lair.

Frank waited with a fabricated sense of patience. Inactivity didn't come naturally to Frank, least of all when there was a psychotic serial killer on the loose. Knowing that he could strike again at any moment was enough to send Frank crazy. In spite of this, Frank was acutely aware that the best chance he had of stopping the killer was to wait calmly for the librarian to return, and pray that the information he carried would lead him somehow to the killer. After an eternity of minutes, the old man shuffled back, weighed down by the large box he carried.

"There you go sir. The Richland Times, from '92 to '93, all 104 issues. Looking for anything to particular?"

"A reason." Frank gave another professional smile and took the box from the bemused man and retired to a table in a quiet corner, where he began sifting through the papers.

The Police investigation into the murders had uncovered nothing and up until now, neither had Frank. The only link between the victims that had been discovered was that they had all attended Richland High School. Digging a little deeper, it turned out that all the victims had attended the school in the years of '92 and '93. Eight people had been killed, brutally and savagely. If Frank knew anything about killing (and only an idiot would suggest otherwise), there were two types of killers. There were the mentally unstable; the sort that heard the devil, who listened to that dark void inside, who killed violently and indiscriminately. The only pattern was that there was no pattern.

The other type was the cold-blooded killer, the one who struck for a reason, with motive. The ones like Frank. Methodical killers, planning their murders with pain-staking precision, they often had a specific M.O. Looking at the open throat killings, it was clear that, despite the extremely violent nature of the crime, the killer was not a complete psychotic. The M.O.s had been consistent and precise in every case, excluding Wilson's death, which Frank suspected was indirectly related to the rest of the victims. The murders were the result of careful planning, whereby the killer had struck with speed and efficiency. This pointed to the second type of killer, the one driven by motive; the sort like the Punisher. Frank smiled inwardly. Better the devil you know.

Having exhausted all other avenues to identify the killer, Frank decided to try and identify the motive, certain that it would lead him to the murderer. For eight people to be killed, Frank figured that there was something big behind it all, something big enough to have left an imprint on a quiet little suburb like Richland. Sure enough, after a little over an hour spent scouring the papers, Frank found what he was looking for.

--

**On the other side of the city...**

"I mean it Jason, don't you dare come any closer!" screamed Grace, struggling hopelessly to keep her gun steadily aimed. Jason smirked, his own gun remaining as still as a stone, aimed at Grace's head.

"Quit fooling around little girl, just hand me the gun."

Grace shook her head violently, as tears started to crawl down her cheeks. "No, no, no way. You'll kill me!"

Jason smiled sadistically. "If I wanted to kill you, do you honestly think a white collared whore like you could stop me?"

Grace shuddered uncontrollably as she sobbed loudly. In a heartbeat, Jason stepped forward and snatched the gun out of her grip. He threw it over his shoulder, far out of reach from Grace. Her eyes widened in fear, as she subconsciously shuffled backward, until her escape was cut off by cold hard concrete. Jason casually advanced until the muzzle of his gun was tight against her cheek. His other hand clamped down on her shoulder, as he leaned in close so that Grace could feel his hot breath on her delicate skin. The tears were now flowing freely down her face as he whispered softly in her ear. "Never, ever point a gun at me again, or I swear I'll tear you apart."

He pulled his fist back and pistol-whipped her. The gun connected brutally with her cheek, sending her across the room and into the table. She crumpled up in a messy heap, weeping hysterically. Jason calmly set his gun at the table then turned to face Grace, shaking his head in exasperation. "Dumb bitch," he muttered, sitting down in his seat and turning on the television. Jason nonchalantly changed channels until he found the basketball, seemingly oblivious of his guest who dried her eyes and slowly struggled to her feet. "You're... you're not going to kill me?" asked Grace, her voice hesitant and unsure.

"I might if you keep standing there asking stupid questions. Sit down."

Grace obeyed without a thought, sinking to the floor again and leaning against the wall. "I don't get it Aren't you the Open-Throat Killer?"

Jason sighed, his voice laced with boredom as he spoke. "You're still breathing, aren't you?"

Squeezing her eyes shut with frustration, Grace whined. "Damn it, just answer the question! I need to know, you've got to tell me. Are you the killer?"

"If I was, you'd never have seen me coming. You'd be six foot under by now. No, I'm not your crazy psycho Open Throat killer."

Grace's head sank into her hands. "It was just... Damn. I was so sure it was you." She breathed deeply. "The rest of the crew's dead Jason. Dead. It's just you, me and Debbie left." She swallowed hard. "I can't imagine little Debbie as the serial killer sort, so I figured..." She trailed off, afraid to carry on.

"You figured I was the sort, eh?" questioned Jason, pulling the unsaid words from the air. "You thought I'd flipped out and murdered the old gang. Just woke up the wrong side of bed one morning and decided to butcher the old pack like some rabid psycho. Correct?"

Staring at the floor, Grace self-consciously bit her lip. The fact was that there was something very wrong with Jason. When in public he seemed an almost reasonable guy, who was always very polite. But just underneath the surface, an incredible passion for violence lay. It had been there ever since Grace had known him. Whenever there had been a fight in school, it was usually Jason who had thrown the first punch, and invariably the last one too. For all his manners and charm, Jason was an animal, a very sick animal, one that would never be tamed. The events of that summer's night fifteen years ago proved that beyond all doubt. No, it wouldn't take a suspension of disbelief to picture Jason hunting down the old crew. But Grace certainly wasn't going to tell him that to his face.

"I'm sorry Jason, okay? It's fine for you, you've never been afraid of anything, but it's totally different for me. I'm scared Jason, scared out of my skull. Six of my closest friends have been slaughtered. Every time I hear a noise in the house, every time someone looks at me, I wonder if my time's up, whether I'm the next one for the mortician's table." The tears started to spill again. "I'm all alone Jason, I've got no-one. How am I meant to survive against this monster?"

"What about that fancy husband of yours?" asked Jason, raising an eyebrow.

"That useless pencil pushing prick? Please. He's even more helpless than I am. Even if he were any good, what the hell would I say to him? 'Hey honey, how was work? I've cooked your favourite for tea. Oh, by the way darling, I think a lunatic is going to try and kill me for something that I had a part in fifteen years ago. Any chance you could help?' Can't see that going down to well myself. What on earth am I supposed to do?"

"You'll figure out something, you always do. You're smart."

Grace shrugged dismissively. "Easier said than done. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter how smart I am. There's no reasoning with this killer. My throat would be in ribbons before I could say a word."

With a long sigh, she stood up and walked to the kitchen. She returned a short while later, with a freshly opened beer in her hand and sat silently on the arm of Jason's chair, sipping at the cool drink while the basketball commentary droned on. Halfway through the bottle, she piped up. "Look at me Jason."

He turned his head to her and frowned. "What?"

"Look at me," she repeated. "I'm helpless without you Jason, I know that. I need your help."

A sneer came across his face. "Give me one decent reason why I should," he scoffed.

Reaching out, Grace softly touched his hand. "Come on Jason, it'll be like those good old days. Don't pretend you don't remember." She smiled gently. "We were a hell of a team back then, weren't we?"

Jason shoved her hand away. "Yes, we were. But you left that, you walked out on me. You thought that you were better than I was. Got yourself a posh, rich husband, an important sounding job and some classy new friends. You left me like I was trash."

Grace dropped to her knees and grabbed his hands. "Yes, I left you, but I was wrong. I can see that now. I was a stupid idiot to leave you, I should never have done it. I want to come back Jason, I want to be with you again. I want to put things right, I really do." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I need you Jason, simple as that. I'm lost without you." She leaned in closer and ever so slowly kissed his lips.

Jason pulled back and looked into her eyes, an unmistakable smirk on his face. "I always knew you'd come back to me." He returned her kiss, fiercely attacking her lips as he held her head close. She began to tug at his top, as he scooped her up in his arms and carried her through to the bedroom.

--

_It had been a delightful spring evening, particularly warm and pleasant. It was such a beautiful night that young Jessica decided to walk home rather than take the bus she usually did. The sunset that night was spectacular, a fiery display of deep ambers and reds giving way to long meandering streaks of purple. The path Jessica would've taken would have given a first class view as the sun majestically disappeared amongst the trees. _

_An hour after Jessica was last seen entering the park, a jogger disco__vered the remains of her body, carelessly discarded next to the path like she was just another piece of litter. Years later, the jogger still woke up from the nightmares of what he had seen. The pathologist would later explain how after she had been sexually assaulted, Jessica had been struck repeatedly with a blunt instrument. The extent of the injuries suggested a large group of assailants. The post-mortem revealed that she had been hit so hard that one of her kidneys had burst, and shards of her skull were embedded in her brain. Bright, young, beautiful Jessica had bled to death, naked and alone on a perfect spring evening._

Frank shut his eyes as his fist involuntarily clenched. His blood boiled beneath his cold exterior. Without a further word, Frank tucked the newspaper into his jacket and walked out into the wet evening, ignoring the calls of the librarian behind. Frank had found his killer's motive, but there was a whole new dilemma to handle. If Frank was right, the Open Throat killer was murdering Jessica's killers. If that was the case, did Frank really want to stop him? In fact, shouldn't he be helping him?


	8. Chapter 8

The rain assaulted the apartment as the first dull shards of sunlight stumbled into the bedroom. Grace tiptoed to the bathroom, gently closing the door behind her. Shortly, she stood under the scalding water from the shower and tried to scrub away the stress from her body. Everything had gone well. She was safe. She'd tell her husband that an emergency had come up at work, or that one of her friends had been rushed to hospital, or maybe some other stereotypical excuse. It didn't matter, it wasn't as though her husband would actually care. More than likely, he hadn't been home himself, engaged in yet another of his own stereotypical 'emergency' meetings.  
After making sure that she'd got rid of every trace that she'd spent the night with Jason, she emerged from the bathroom. Dressing quickly, she grabbed her handbag and headed for the door. She paused, her fingers resting on the handle, then turned to the bedroom. She spoke softly. "I'm sorry Jason, but I've got to go now. I know you understand. I'll see you soon."  
She smiled gently to herself, then opened the door and left.  
Jason sat in the bed, staring coldly into the distance, a grimace on his face and his fists tightly closed.

Joel threw the office door shut behind him.  
"How was the boss, boss?"  
Joel took a seat and threw his feet on his desk before addressing his team. "He's pretending to be pissed, but he's loving this. He's got my nuts in a vice over this one, and he knows it." Joel shook his head resignedly. "I mean, what the hell happened? We had Punisher surrounded. He made a fool out of me; he made a fool out of the whole task-force."  
An uneasy silence descended on the room, as awkward glances were exchanged between the team. Joel interrupted quietly. "Have we got anything? Any leads on the Punisher's current location?"  
One of the men spoke up. "The I.T. team finished their initial analysis on the computer he was using when we caught up with him. It seems like Castle was doing a little investigating of his own. All the websites he looked at were related in one way or another to the victims of a serial killing, the Open Throat murders." Murmurs of recognition swept the room as Joel considered this.  
"So it's a possibility he's after the killer. Get the file Shane, let's see if we can get anything from it. Maybe we'll work out where he's heading next."  
The man looked to his feet. "Actually sir, I requested it already, as soon as I had the report from the I.T. department. I was told that the file was, well, classified. Only officers working directly on the case are allowed access."  
"Must've been a mistake. Who did you ask? Was it that new girl in the office? She's hopeless. Go back and ask Selena."  
"It was Selena. She tried three times, but each time it came back with the request denied."  
Joel frowned. "I'm sure it must be just some computer error. I'll go get the file direct from the captain. Meanwhile, I want you all out looking for more leads. He's a human, he can't just disappear. Don't bother coming back without something worth reporting,"  
The men promptly filed out of the cramped room, followed by Joel who shuffled to the captain's office. There was a knot in his stomach, which became worse the more he thought about the case. Despite what he'd said, the chances of a computer error denying access to a current high profile case file were remote, to say the least. But why would a normal multiple homicide file be off limits to police officers? Then of course there was the other problem, The Punisher. For as long as anyone could remember, Frank Castle had mainly targeted the crime families. In the past few years, he'd dealt heavy blows against the Mafia, the Irish gangs, Armenian slave rings, and Triad outfits. All heavy hitters, responsible for untold crime and suffering. So, what had Frank interested in one solitary serial killer? There were hundreds of murderers on the loose, why had Frank picked this one, classified criminal?

Frank opened the door

_Frank opened the door. The Armenian's blood trailed off down the corridor into the darkness. The Punisher had been watching the gang for months, waiting for the leader to reveal himself. That day had come. A deal with the local Mafia outfit had brought out the big chiefs,and Castle had been there to meet them. The initial explosion from the claymores had been effective, and the following fire fight was intense but short. The only loose end was three pints of type A negative down and currently crawling down the corridor of an old apartment building. The Armenian moved forward determinedly, teeth clamped shut. After all the commotion, the cops would surely arrive any second. If he could just survive until they arrived, he'd be home and dry.  
The kick came out of nowhere, exploding into his ribs and flipping him over onto his back. The man cried out and raised his gun, only to see it torn away, along with most of his hand. In what seemed to be the distance, he thought he could hear the familiar sound of a shotgun blast echoing. He glared up at his assailant, snarling a flood of incoherent curses. Then, the Skull came into focus. Beyond the nightmarish emblem, a man's face, colder than the symbol he personified. The Armenian's eye's widened as he fell silent. Death raised his shotgun to the man's face and pulled the trigger. The world faded from the man's sight in a haze of blood and despair, as in the distance again, he heard the shotgun , for the last time.  
Castle recovered the mobster's gun and left the corpse where it lay, striding quickly down the corridor toward the fire exit. Time was short. The police were probably already arriving at the scene. His hand was on the door when he stopped. Out of the edge of his eyes, he could see that the door immediately to his right was ajar. In a building full of barricaded doors, one had been left open. A primeval voice within Frank commanded him to look again. Sure enough, it was still there: an open door. There was nothing particularly unusual about it. There was any number of reasons why someone may have left the door ajar and Frank couldn't think of one justifiable reason for him to go in. Frank stepped through the doorway.  
The apartment was a mess. Kid's toys were strewn alongside self-help books and abandoned clothes. Loud voices drew him to the lounge. An outdated television with the volume turned up was showing an old western Frank had seen a million times. The Indians were winning. Otherwise, the lounge was empty. Frank walked hesitantly into the kitchen, where a loud click caught his attention. A kettle had just boiled, but there was no movement from anyone. Frank moved across to the next room, unsure of what he was looking for. The police were probably in the building by now; escape would be difficult. Still, the voice inside was adamant he continue. Obligingly, he opened the door and the voice began to laugh. On the floor, a man lay in an ever expanding pool of blood. Fear and disbelief were etched into the man's eyes, as they pleaded for a life already lost. There were no obvious signs of a struggle, apart from on his neck. There was no throat, just a sticky red pit, still gently pumping out blood. There was nothing Frank could do other than watch and after a few seconds, the last scraps of life left the man, and the pit fell still.  
Frank had already drawn his gun, knowing the killer couldn't have gone far. He went quickly back to the hallway and tried the last door, silently sliding it open. The body inside was a wreck, barely recognisable as a human being. It had been flung against the wardrobe, like a discarded rag doll. Deep crimson slash marks adorned the arms. Frank looked closer, and saw that the face and stomach were in a similar state. A knife was still embedded in the heart._

That had been eight weeks ago, many miles from where Frank stood now. This door was different; solid oak, with finely crafted engravings along the edges. Having picked the lock with no trouble, the door opened, wide and inviting. Frank paused, listening for any sound of movement. As he'd expected, there was none. After a few minutes of silence had passed, he slowly entered the house.  
Behind the door lay a small pile of mail, all addressed to a Ms L Warner. The newspaper Frank had taken from the library mentioned how Jessica's family had been hit hard by the death, and how her younger sister, Lisa, was especially distraught. It took months of counselling before Lisa had even been able to talk. A little bit of snooping around had revealed her current address. The victim's sibling seemed like the most likely candidate; Frank knew what it felt like to lose family you love. That could turn anyone to murder. Even if she wasn't the killer, she would likely be aware of who was, maybe unwittingly. Either way, Frank wasn't going to leave without an answer.  
As he softly walked through the hallway, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The voice that had goaded him, back on the night when he had been so close to the killer, had returned. It was an ancient voice, one that had been with him for as long as he cared to remember, that reared up whenever death was at hand, whether on the battlefields of Vietnam or the suburbs of the city. Was it laughing? Cheering? Frank shook his head, trying to dislodge the demons anchored within. Fresh apprehension seized him and he began to searching the house with ever increasing urgency. The voice was clear; death had come this way. The psychoanalysis could wait, right now Frank knew action was needed. After all, the voice had never been wrong. Frank stormed from room to room, gun at the ready, but the house was as quiet as the mausoleum, and just as cold.  
Frank paused in the kitchen. A cup of coffee was on the table, frozen to the touch. Frank sniffed the milk beside it, flinching slightly as the sour odour permeated the air. The house seemed lived in, but it looked like it had been empty for at least a week. He took his search upstairs, checking each and every room until he came to one last door. He stood outside, staring at the handle. The voice was chuckling genially beside him. He opened the door.  
It was a large bedroom, decorated in a rich crimson. A king-size bed lay on one side, and a large plain desk stood opposite. A bulky file lay open across the desk, along with a mass of papers, whilst a detailed poster map of the city was pinned to the wall above. Frank approached the table and began to read from the file. The open page showed an old Polaroid shot of a group of teenagers, smirking for the camera. A few of the faces were familiar. Frank leafed through the folder. News clippings of Jessica's death. Leaked police reports. Then he came to a list of seven names. The following pages gave detailed information on the listed individuals: descriptions, last known addresses, police records, career summaries and more. Five of the names were in the city mortuary, the other two weren't recognised by Frank. He noted down their details, the stepped away. After a brief check to see if he'd missed anything, Frank walked away from the house, heading for one of the addresses from the list. Pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, but they appeared to be leading Frank to a potential victim who didn't deserve to be protected, and a killer who appeared to be administering justice. It had been a long time since Frank had lived in a world of black and white, right and wrong. But now the shades of grey were so overwhelming they were blinding him. Frank took a deep breath, before pushing on into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

"You're seriously saying I can't see the file?" asked Joel. The captain rolled his eyes, a parent dealing with an annoying child. "It's classified Joel, that's all I can say."

Joel stood up from the worn chair. "Okay, apart from the fact this makes zero sense, how the hell am I supposed to do my job if you're going to be tying my hands like this?"

"You're not assigned to the Open Throat murders. This case has nothing, I repeat, nothing to do with you."

"You try telling that to the Punisher."

There was a short pause.

"Explain," quietly commanded the captain.

"He's after the killer sir, I know it. He's been looking up any information to do with the murders."

The men waited in silence, as the captain looked out of the window. After a few moments of thought, he turned back to Joel. "What exactly is it you need?"

"The file."

"Impossible, can't be done. Try again."

Joel's jaw tightened, but he managed to stay in control. "With all due respect Sir, how am I supposed to do my job when you won't let me? Ever since this Punisher task force was formed, we've always been a step behind him, picking through the corpses in his wake. Now, for the first time we have an opportunity to turn the tables, except I can't look at one simple homicide file!"

"Calm down son. I'm saying I can't hand over the file, not that I can't help you." The captain leaned back in his chair. "You're certain that The Punisher's after our killer?"

Joel nodded curtly in reply.

"You think you can stop him?"

"If you'll let me."

"Believe me, stopping Frank Castle is now this departments top priority. Why don't you step outside, grab yourself a coffee? I'm going to make a phone call, see what I can do to lend you a hand. Won't take a minute."

Joel slowly paced the corridor for exactly 41 minutes before being told he could once again see the captain. The man sat behind his antique desk, and invited Joel to sit. Once Joel was settled, the captain addressed him sombrely.

"I've managed to get you what you need, but first I've been asked to make sure you understand a few things."

The captain peered at Joel, making sure he had his full attention.

"First of all, you or your team will not interfere in the Open Throat murders investigation at all. Specifically, under no circumstances are you to approach any suspect." Another pause.

"Secondly, you must make sure that Castle is apprehended before he has a chance to approach any suspect. I don't care what you have to do to stop him, but there is no way this department can be seen to condone any acts of vigilantism. Is that understood?" The captain spoke slowly and clearly. "Castle must be taken out before he can harm the suspect."

"I get the picture."

"I'm not sure that you do. If any harm at all comes to the suspect, there'll be a full investigation into your actions. Any mistakes at all will be brought to light. Heads will roll."

"And if an innocent bystander happens to be in danger?"

"That is none of your concern, none of your responsibility. Your sole duty is to take the Punisher down. Now I need to know whether you can handle that assignment, or do I need to find someone else who can?"

Joel briefly considered what his heroes would have said in the face of such a task. A dry comeback from Bogart, righteous indignation from Bauer; disgust from his father perhaps. No such reply was forthcoming from Joel, just a simple sentence. "I can handle it."

"Good." The captain slid an envelope across the table. "Inside are two addresses."

"Addresses? Of what?"

The captain shrugged. "I've said all I can say." He stood up, signifying that the matter had now come to a close. "Just remember your assignment, remember your place. Don't make me regret this."

Joel nodded dismissively as he snatched the envelope, stood sharply and left the office without speaking another word.

After the door had shut and Joel's footsteps had faded into the distance, the captain picked up the phone. "Well, I did as you said... He is a good man sir, he'll do his best... Don't worry. If it comes to it, he'll kill The Punisher."

He peered out of his window, as Joel led his team out of the station car park, heading for the first address from the envelope.

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Frank walked along the avenue, the collar on his trench coat turned up. The cold bite in the evening air kept most people at home, leaving Castle to his own thoughts. The questions in his head circled like angry wasps. Who was he hunting? A psychotic serial killer, or someone who'd lost everything they'd ever cared about and reacting accordingly? A murderer, or a victim? It would be especially stupid of Frank, of all people, to think of those two as mutually exclusive concepts, but that didn't answer the question: what would Frank do when he caught up with the killer? Did he have the right, or even the ability to make that decision? The easy thing would be to leave that choice to somebody else. Hell, he could let Matt Murdock and his well paid courtroom cronies spend years debating the intricacies of the law and how they applied to this case. For all of Matt's sermons however, Frank knew that justice was not to be found in the courts today. The killer with a rich expensive lawyer, the murderer with friends in high places; they invariably triumphed over the penniless and innocent. Frank would find the killer. Then, one way or another, he'd deal with them.

Frank lifted his head against the cutting wind. He'd reached the street from the the first address, the one taken from Lisa's room. The flat was now in sight and Frank wondered whether Lisa had already been through. A sinking feeling was in his stomach; something wasn't right. Frank cursed himself for not surveying the address properly. He could feel the adrenaline starting to pump through his arteries, as the dark voice inside rose up and, like a mysterious lover, whispered softly in his ear:

"_Behind you." _

Frank spun around, just in time to see a man disappear into a doorway, whispering furiously into his collar, his hand held to his ear. Frank darted into an adjacent alleyway, out of sight. A few seconds later, two cops burst out of the building and the first man joined them. Joel spoke first.

"You're sure it was him?"

The first man nodded vigorously. "But I think he may have seen me. I ducked into a doorway, when I looked out he'd vanished."

"Check out the neighbouring buildings. Get the rest of the team to help you. I'll check the alleys."

Joel drew his gun and advanced into the narrow passage. He moved quickly, scanning the doorways and checking any openings. A shape shifted in the darkness, and he trained his gun on the crouching figure. "Freeze, put your hands behind your head, do it now Castle!"

The silhouette groaned. " Dammit, what the hell's your problem cracker?"

The strong smell of alcohol swept over Joel and he involuntarily recoiled his head as his eyes began to water. His eyes were were still scrunched up in revulsion, but he was nevertheless able to feel the minute change in the air pressure on his neck. Instinct took over and he attempted to roll away, but was unable to avoid the blow completely. In the edge of his vision, he caught a glimpse of the skull emerging from a doorway he'd dismissed as empty moments earlier, just before Frank's fist connected with his kidney. Joel shouted as the paralysing pain surged through his body. He reeled around to face his attacker, and desperately deflected the incoming punch away from his head, before throwing his own punch back. It lacked speed, and Frank avoided it easily, then brought his knee up into Joel's gut, knocking the air out of the unfortunate cop. Grabbing his arms, Frank threw him face first into the cold asphalt, then crouched down beside him. "Stay out of my way." Leaving Joel struggling to stay conscious, Frank withdrew into the depths of the alley.

Moments later, the two policemen Joel had sent to investigate the buildings appeared at the mouth of the passageway and saw Joel spluttering on the floor, amidst the rubbish and detritus. They rushed to his aid. "I thought I'd heard something! You okay boss?"

Joel brushed off their attempts to help him up, waving them away with what little dignity he had. "I'm on top of the bloody world, thank you very much Scott. I take it neither of you have apprehended Punisher?"

"No sign of him sir."

"Figures." Joel pulled himself to his feet. "Never mind. At least we know the first address was valid. Which means he's probably heading for the second one now. I want everyone out of here now, we're moving out to the second address now." He managed a smirk. "I want to be there to welcome Frank personally."

One of the cops shifted his weight nervously. "What about the body sir?"

"It's not our problem, we have our orders. 'Don't disturb the crime scene.'"

"We just leave it there, in that state? Doesn't seem right, shouldn't we inform someone, get another squad car out to handle it?"

Joel turned to Scott. "I said we have our orders. Now I need to know whether you can follow that order, or do I need to find someone else who can?"

Scott shrugged. "Hear no evil, see no evil, eh? I can deal with that."

"Good. Get the team together, we're heading to the second location right now."

The three left the alley. Satisfied that they'd gone, Frank stood out from the shadows. The drunk man chuckled gruffly. "Wondered where you'd disappeared to. That was one nasty punch there, surprised he was able to walk away from that."

Frank didn't acknowledge the compliment, but walked instead to the nearby building, the original address he'd been heading for. The lock yielded easily, and Frank stepped quietly inside. The place was sparsely furnished; a television and an old games console sat in the corner, opposite a plain looking sofa and coffee table. The place seemed undisturbed. The dark voice inside patiently suggested that it would be a good idea to try looking upstairs. At the top of the stairs, Frank stepped into the bedroom, and the dark voice broke into spontaneous applause.

The man was sat in bed, staring coldly into the distance, a grimace on his face and his fists tightly closed. His throat was an empty chasm. Blood had crawled down the remnants of his neck and across his chest, before soaking into the bed clothes, turning them a dirty crimson. Sirens could be heard in the distance as Frank turned and left the flat, mentally crossing Jason's name off the list. Now there was only one person left, and the clock was ticking


	10. Chapter 10

It was the early hours of the next day when Castle parked the van, two blocks from the second location. He'd driven past the building twice, invisible amidst the many cars that flooded these streets. 'Welcome to the city that never sleeps,' Castle thought dryly. The policemen by the main entrance stood out like the skull on his shirt, and on the second run by, Frank noted the two by the alleyway that led to the side door. Both entrances were covered; getting in wouldn't be easy with the police waiting for him. But forewarned was forearmed. Frank was more concerned with locating the target in such a crowded building: 'Liquid,' a nightclub that catered to the young and the rich. The queue waiting to get in was full of designer suits, fake tans and daddy's money. Frank was confident that inside the building, was the last name on Lisa's list; hopefully still alive. Castle reached the block where the club was situated and found a fire escape. Frank climbed up, attracting a small cheer from a couple of drunk students wondering past.

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She walked right past the cops, gave them a friendly smile and stepped into the club. She ignored the admiring leer from the bouncer and walked through the foyer. She felt like her heart was going to burst through her ribcage, but she kept her composure. Calm; it was essential she remained calm. She'd come so far and was so close to her goal, she simply couldn't afford to mess up now. The dead lay behind her, all by her hand, grim memories of a past life, necessary steps along the route to escape. The end was in sight. She pushed her way through the writhing crowds and squeezed in against the bar. She raised her hand and caught the eye of one of the bartenders, a pale woman with short purple hair and an impressive collection of studs on her face, who sauntered over. "What can I get you?" she yelled over the noise.

"A vodka with coke, plenty of ice please."

The bartender nodded and turned to pour the drink. After a moment she turned and handed the woman her drink, whilst giving her a closer look. "Hey, do I know you from somewhere?"

The woman smiled. "I knew you'd remember me."

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Frank landed with a thud on the roof of the club. He paused, completely still, alert for any sign that he'd been discovered. After a few moments, Castle cautiously walked across to the roof access, and tried the handle.

The door slammed outwards and into Frank. Before Frank could react, a baseball bat struck him squarely in the face. His nose broke as a large spurt of blood escaped.

"Hello Franky." Joel smirked as he casually stepped out onto the rooftop. Castle lifted his face just in time for Joel to deliver another blow to Castles head, accompanied by a sickening crack.

"I'm sorry, am I in your way?"

Joel took another swing at Frank's face. Frank moved quickly and caught the bat, absorbing most of the attacks power, but Joel responded immediately with a strong kick to Frank's gut, knocking the breath out of him.

"It's time you learned you lesson Frank. You're not above the law. You've had a good run, killed a lot of people, gotten a lot of kicks, but that's over now."

Frank spat the blood out of his mouth and onto the floor. "You done talking yet?"

Joel smiled. "Yeah, I guess we're both done here." He raised the bat for a final blow. "Game over Castle. Game over."

Frank returned the smile. With an explosion of energy, he threw his foot out in a vicious kick, catching Joel just below the kneecap and causing him to stumble. Frank rolled away onto his feet and the baseball bat careened harmlessly into the concrete.

Joel snarled as he swung the bat again, low and fast. Frank stepped to the side and caught the bat as it flew past him and gave it a sharp tug, pulling Joel off balance and toward him. As the officer fell forward, Frank took a step toward him and dug his elbow into Joel's stomach. Gripping the bat firmly, Frank delivered a quick blow to Joel's ankles and the cop tumbled to the floor. Castle brought the bat back round and swung down hard at his fallen attacker. Joel attempted to catch the bat but took it awkwardly, and there was a sickening crack as his wrist bone broke. Joel yelped in agony as the pain and nausea filled him. Castle crouched beside him and without a further word struck him in the head, knocking him unconscious. Frank threw the bloodied bat away and stepped over the cop and through the doorway.

Frank made his way down the metal staircase and into the attic space of the club. The dull pounding bass of the music reverberated though the cracked plasterboard. A corridor ran the length of the club, with rooms on either side. Castle walked slowly along, methodically checking each room whilst looking and listening for anything out of the ordinary. The rooms were full of junk: disused chairs, old posters, dust covered boxes; nothing unusual.

The cry was shrill and short, almost lost amidst the heavy trance music thumping below. Frank turned his head to the sound and moved forward, trying to locate the source, kicking doors open as he homed in. The fourth door cracked open to reveal a shabby office, full of the stale odour of sweat and blood. A window at the far end offered a view of the club and its denizens, currently lost in an euphoric stupor. A cheap bookcase held large files of paperwork and accounts, whilst an elegant table and chair, entirely inappropriate in their shady surroundings, occupied the centre of the room. With her back to Castle, a smartly dressed woman leaned against the desk. Beyond her, another woman, with short purple hair lay bruised and bloodied in the chair. She was still breathing. Frank stepped forward slowly. "Lisa?"


	11. Chapter 11

Castle took another step into the office, his gun holstered and his hand outstretched to the woman behind the desk. As Frank moved nearer, she picked up a knife and leapt back, placing the other woman between herself and Frank. He spoke: "Lisa? My name is Frank Castle."

The woman's eyes widenned, but she kept the blade to her hostage's throat. Frank continued, his voice soft and gentle. "Lisa, I know what you've done, and I know why you're doing it. I know what it is you're feeling. I've felt... I feel the same way."

The woman remained silent, never releasing her iron hold on the knife and her captive. Frank pressed on. "I'm not here to judge you Lisa. I want to help you."

Frank fell silent, and mind-numbing trance music from the nearby dance floor filled the gap. The woman tilted her head to one side, examining Castle carefully. Suddenly, the purple haired woman spluttered and broke the silence. "Why the hell do you keep calling her Lisa?"

The woman with the knife smirked. "Mr Frank Castle. I know who you are, but it doesn't look like you know who I am."

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Around the side of the club, one of the police officers pulled out his radio. "Joel, still no sign of the suspect here. You sure he's going to be coming tonight?"

There was no reply.

"Joel, you reading me? Everything OK up there?"

There was nothing but static on the radio. The policeman glanced at his colleague. "Damn, Joel's not answering. He's probably just turned the radio off. I'll go check, you keep an eye on the doors."

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Frank took a step back, as his eyes narrowed and he tried to quickly make sense of the changing battlefield. The woman spoke first.

"Well, it looks like it's up to me to make the introductions. Frank, I'd like you to meet Debbie; Debbie meet Frank. Frank's in the business of killing criminals. Debbie's the sociopathic bitch who held down Jessica Warner while she was raped and murdered. I'm sure you guys are going to get on just great."

Debbie swallowed hard. "Listen, Frank..."

The woman clenched her fist and viciously back handed Debbie. "Shut up, you don't get to talk now. Say another word and I'll gut you here and now."

Frank considered this for a moment. "And what about you? Who are you?"

The woman gave a tight lipped smile. "Frank, I'm doing what you do. I've tracked down every last person who had anything to do with Jessica's murder. One by one, I've found them and made them pay." The woman snorted derisively. "They thought they'd got away with it, thought they could carry on living their lives as normal. But they had to be punished. They got what they deserved. There's no escaping your past."

"But why you?"

"Who else? Nobody else cared. Where were you? Was it on your to-do list? Fifteen years is a long time to wait Frank."

Frank glanced briefly at the floor, before returning his eyes to the killer before him, her eyes cold and dead. They reminded him of his own. But the dark voice inside told him differently. Somewhere along the line, something was out of place.

"You still haven't answered my question. Why are you doing this? You don't just wake up one morning and decide to punish the guilty. What is it that drives you?"

The woman gave Frank another of her peculiar smiles. "Typical. You really do live up to your reputation Mr Castle. Everyone owes you an explanation, but you're somehow exempt? Please. You expect everyone to believe you're still cut up over your family's death?"

Frank growled at the mention of his family, but the woman just shook her head dismissively. "I'm a killer Frank, pure and simple; just like you. The only difference is that your body count's in the thousands, compared to my handful of corpses. So quit standing there like I owe you of all people an explanation. If you don't mind, I'm almost done here."

The woman lent over and whispered into Debbie's ear, as she traced the knife along her neck. "Time to die."

With a loud crack, the door to the office smash open, as two policemen stepped in, guns raised.

"Everybody freeze!"

The woman's eyes switched to the cops, and she released her grip on the knife. Frank burst into life, leaping over the table and yanking Debbie away from the killer's grasp. He turned to face the officers, who both had their guns trained on him. "Give it up Castle. We've been told to use whatever force necessary to bring you down. One way or another, you're leaving here with us. It's up to you whether we need the body bag or not."

Frank's eyes darted around the room. The cops were blocking the door, and there wasn't enough room to manoeuver. He'd be shot down in seconds. There was only one option left. Frank whispered into Debbie's ear. "Hold on tight."

Frank picked Debbie up and jumped through the window, breaking the glass with his shoulder. The crowd below looked up at the sound and managed to get out of the way as Frank landed hard on the floor and rolled to break his fall, with Debbie safely huddled in his arms. Without pausing for breath, Frank got to his feet and pushed his way through the confused crowd, Debbie in hand. One of the policemen followed, jumping through the window, but landed awkwardly and broke his ankle, his yells lost amongst the mixture of synthesised beats and hysterical screams. The other cop stood in the window, shouting angrily into his radio. "Suspect is on the move, I repeat, Castle is on the move. He has a hostage. Carter's down. Cover the exits. He's heading toward the main exit now. Where's backup?"

Castle shoved his way through the panicking crowd, forcing his way to the exit. People poured out of the exit, knocking into the two cops waiting for Frank. As they tried to control the scared swarm, Frank strode up to the first and punched him in the gut, before bringing his knee swiftly up to meet the reeling cop's face, knocking him out cold. The other cop turned just in time to see his comrade go down. He rushed at Castle, his baton raised. Castle ducked the first swipe aimed at his head, grabbed the cops attacking arm and swung him round, head first into the brick wall. Taking hold of Debbie's hand, he led her away from the club, and disappeared into the streets.

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Joel hobbled into the club's office. The woman was grinning, playing with her hair whilst one of the policemen chatted cheerfully with her. Joel pulled the officer to one side. "Quit flirting with the witness and get out there after Castle. He can't have got far. I'll deal with things here."

The cop rolled his eyes, before turning and leaving the room, leaving Joel alone with the woman. Joel looked intently at the mystery woman. She was an attractive lady, smartly dressed and with long blond hair. She returned his gaze with a sympathetic smile. "You look like you've had a hell of a night officer."

Joel shrugged, which sent a jolt of agony across his shoulders. His whole body felt like it had been crushed, and he knew that the night wouldn't be complete without a quick visit to A & E. "I've had worse."

She smiled sweetly at him. "Well, if it's any consolation, I've had better. I really thought that maniac was going to kill me..."

Joel held up his good hand, interrupting her. "Save it. All I know is that I have my orders. You're free to go. Get out of here before I think better of it."

The woman took a deep breath, and for a moment was relaxed. "Thank you officer." She walked past him, adrenaline pumping through her veins. Just as she was at the door, Joel spoke again, his back turned to her. "I don't know who you are. I don't know why my superiors are so eager to see you unharmed and free. But watch your step. No ones luck lasts forever."

She turned to face Joel and smirked. "Thanks for your concern, but I make my own luck. I have no idea what you're insinuating, but I hope that wasn't some sort of threat?"

"No threat intended ma'am, no threat at all."

"Good. Now, if you're done?"

"Sure, you can head off." Joel gave her his best fake smile. "Just don't forget your knife though."

The woman raised her eyebrows and blushed, before turning around and marching quickly away.

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Frank locked the door behind them and turned the light on in the safe-house. Debbie stumbled, in a daze, into a corner, where she sat down and began to cry uncontrollably. "She was going to kill me, she was actually going to kill me. I just can't believe it."

Frank knelt beside her and wrapped his coat around her. "I know. It's best not to think about it."

He sat down opposite her, and gently took hold of her hands. "Listen, I know it's not easy, but I need to ask you some questions. I need to know everything you know about the woman."

Debbie glanced up and looked at Frank's eyes. "You're going to stop her, right?"

Frank paused. "I'm going to make sure that no more innocent people get hurt. Now, start from the beginning. Who is she?"

The woman took a deep breath and composed herself. "Her name... is Grace."

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Grace looked cautiously around, making certain she hadn't been followed. After she was sure that the police, or indeed the Punisher, hadn't followed her, she slipped into the warehouse. After closing the door, she collapsed against the door. The night had been tough on her. She had been so close! Then Frank Castle had turned up, a most unpleasant surprise. How she'd survived that encounter was nothing short of a miracle, and just when she'd thought things couldn't get worse, the police had arrived. Another loathsome encounter, which also led to a new question. What that police officer had said to her made it pretty clear someone was watching her back, making sure she stayed out of trouble. She had no idea who. Not that she was complaining, she could certainly do with a guardian angel. She sighed, and walked to the workshop at the back of the warehouse. After entering the combination for the lock, she stepped inside. In one of the cupboards she found a half empty bottle of whiskey, and poured herself out a generous portion. Debbie was still out there, and she wasn't sure what she could do about that.

Worst case scenario, she had already gone to the police. But it looked like she had someone taking care of the police. Besides, at the end of day it was Debbie's word against hers. Who was going to believe a washed out punk with a drugs problem against a successful businesswoman with no criminal record? Then as soon as she got a chance, she would wipe out that pest. Once Debbie was dead, she could move onto the final phase. She turned on the police scanner she had acquired, and listened to the chatter. There was a lot of talk about the incident at the club, all of it involving Castle and the hostage he had taken. Grace wasn't mentioned at all. She finished off her drink then opened the storeroom. A figure lay on the floor, bound in a straight jacket and chained to a wall. There was no movement as Grace entered, just the slow rhythmic breathing, but Grace could see their eyes in the darkness, devoid of all emotion, staring back. "Not long," Grace whispered, "not long and I promise you, we'll both be free."

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Frank sat next to Debbie on the floor as she explained more about the killer. "You wouldn't believe it, but back in Richland college, we were good mates. We always had each others backs. There was a group back then, eight of us, and we were inseparable. Friends for life, you know? Then, when college finished fifteen years ago, we all went our different ways. A month ago, I see the news story, that Tony had been killed. I couldn't believe it. Then a week goes past and I see another one of the old gang has been murdered. One by one, the crew start dropping like flies. Then, out of the blue, Grace turns up at the club where I'm working. She says we need to talk, that she think she knows who's after the old gang. As soon as we step into the office, she attacks me! Then she's waving that knife around like it's thanksgiving and I'm a turkey, saying she's going to shut me up for good. And that's when you turned up. God, she was really going to kill me! Thank you so much Mr Castle, you saved my life!"

"Don't mention it. Back in the office, Grace mentioned something about a Jessica Warner. Who was she?"

Debbie stiffened up. "I have no idea. Never heard the name before."

Frank took hold of her hand again. "I know it's hard, but I really need to know what this is all about. I need to know what part Grace really has in all this."

"I told you, she's trying to kill us all, the old gang!" Debbie exclaimed.

Frank nodded. "I know. I know it's scary. But I need to know why. What happened fifteen years ago?"

"Oh God, don't go there, please, just let it die. That was a lifetime ago, can't I just leave that nightmare behind?" The woman broke down into tears.

"Debbie, I think you've been running from what happened ever since that day, that you're haunted by it.. I think you need to turn round and face what happened. It's only then you can move past it, that you can be free. What happened in the park?"

Debbie breathed in, and the it all flooded out. "We had all just finished our exams for the summer. We were all in the park getting high, when this dumb looking blond comes walking past. She give us a look of disgust, then carries on by. Jason yells out at her, asking her what her problem is. She doesn't even turn around, just gave him the finger and carried on walking. Well, we all laugh, all apart from Jason. He gets up, starts walking after her, calling her every name under the sun. She started to run, and that was it. Jason caught up with her in no time, then dragged her back by her hair, kicking and screaming. He said we were going to show her who was in charge..."

Debbie broke down, tears streaming down her face. Frank gently spoke. "Let it out. What happened?"

"Oh God... they... they raped her."

Frank let her cry on his shoulder, while inside his stomach slowly twisted into a ball of rage. After a while, Debbie managed to carry on, desperate to exorcise her personal demons. "When they'd finished, they started to hit her. The girls joined in, kicking her, punching her. They just didn't stop. They... they killed her."

Frank stood up and walked away to the other side of the room, the anger flowing through his veins. "Grace was there?"

"She was the first one to start hitting her."

Frank nodded grimly. He knew now what he had to do. Grace had to be found. He took a deep breath, and sat down again next to Debbie. "Was what she said true? Did you join in?"

Debbie dried her eyes. "It's true, I did hold her down. But it wasn't me that killed her. I barely touched her, I swear."

Frank put his arm around her. "It's OK. Don't worry about it now."

Debbie nodded. "It feels so much better to get it out in the open. I've been carrying that guilt around with me for fifteen years. Now it's like a weight has been lifted."

Frank nodded sadly. He picked a berretta up from the table, turned and shot Debbie in the head. She died instantly.


	12. Chapter 12

Frank watched on stoically from a distance as Debbie's body was discovered by the police, where he'd left it in the park. Frank knew there were surveillance cameras by the entrance, which would show who'd dropped her off, but not where they went. He hadn't enjoyed killing Debbie, but his crusade had never been about pleasure. Even so, part of him told himself that in some way, he'd been doing her a favor. In that last conversation, Frank had seen the guilt in her eyes, crushing her down, a heavy weight she'd been unable to shift. As she spoke, she knew what she had done, known the part she had played in the death of Jessica, known she had to somehow pay. Frank turned, walking into the empty streets. The sun was beginning to rise on a new day. The smoke and mirrors had parted, and the end was in sight. Before the day was over, Frank was determined that Jessica would have the justice she deserved.

* * *

Grace turned on the radio and sat down at the table, carefully applied make up masking her drawn and haggered eyes. Her husband sat opposite her, reading the morning's newspaper, whilst helping himself to another sip of espresso. "You look like shit Grace," he stated, his eyes never straying from the paper before him.

She felt like shit. The previous night, no, the previous months had taken their toll on her. Last night was meant to be the end, the grand finale. But Debbie had escaped, thanks to the Punisher, and was still a threat. To be so close... she was on the verge of freedom, and she was damned if she was going to let anything stand in her way. It was with a start she realised that her husband was talking to her. She shook her head. "I'm sorry darling, what was that?"

Her husband peered at her over his glasses. "I said it must've been a rough night for you."

She smiled weakly. "You have no idea. It's been really hard at work at the moment, but I know I'm this close to getting the promotion."

He raised an eyebrow, before returning to the business supplement. Grace nursed her cup of coffee, when a bulletin on the news caught her attention. An overexcited reporter revealed the breaking news that a body had been dumped in the centre of the park. CCTV footage had shown that the body was left by none other than Mr Frank Castle, aka The Punisher. The name of the victim hadn't been released yet, but a source in the police force had stated that the victim marked a departure for The Punisher, as they had no major criminal record. In lowered tones, the reporter asked, has The Punisher finally gone too far? More news after the break.

Grace tried to control herself, but it was all she could do to keep from shouting for joy. After all that, Punisher had done her work for her! They were all dead, and she was now free. That left only one loose end to tidy up. "I have a deadline for this evening dear, so I'm going to be in the office most of the day."

Her husand grunted his consent. Grace finished her coffee, kissed her husband on the cheek, then walked out the door, her legs still shaking.

* * *

Attachments. Frank pondered how many people had died as a result of their attachments. How many people, who found themselves facing certain death, were still unable to let go? Once you had attachments, you were vulnerable. Of course, it's very inconvenient to be unattached. The average person relies on their attachments; friends, family, status, possessions, all the things that become a source of comfort to them. To have no attachments was to step outside your comfort zone, and that required too much effort for most people. That's why Frank was still alive after all these years, having outlived so many of those otherwise intelligent people. No home, no friends, no possessions. As soon as Frank let any of those things into his life, he may as well pull the trigger himself. The dark voice inside pointed out that if Grace really wanted to live, she would have left her job, her husband, her home, her possessions, and disappeared. But she hadn't. That was why she was as good as dead. To her credit, she was making an effort to lie low. She hadn't been to her office today. According to the friendly receptionist, this had been her first sick day in eight years. She wasn't home either. The house stood proud and hollow, the white picket fence and manicured lawn an epitome of the American dream, and just as empty.

A bit of investigative work had revealed a large payment to a warehouse company about six months ago from one of Grace's many accounts. The trail led to a small warehouse, registered under a pseudonym. Her last place of shelter. The warehouse was situated on a run down industrial estate, on the outskirts of the city. Back in the eighties it had been a thriving area, but now most of the units were either derelicts or fronts for drug operations. Frank wondered idly what possible reason Grace could have for wanting land out here. It was hardly congruous with the rest of her lifestyle: the immaculately kept house, the impressive offices, the fancy car. An old Dodge drove past Frank's van, hip-hop music blaring. He ignored it and settled down, waiting for Grace to show.

The driver of the Dodge took the next turn and then stopped the car, before pulling out a cell phone and hitting the speed dial. "Boss? Lefty here. I'm on patrol outside the warehouse, and there's a large van with blacked out windows parked up nearby... No, it's none of the local dealers, I would've recognised it... Yes sir, I'll call the rest of the crew in. Better safe than sorry. Do you know when she's due to arrive?... That's no problem sir. We'll be in place well before then. If The Punisher's here, we'll be ready for him."

* * *

The sun had almost set over the distant mountains when Frank recognised Grace's car approaching in the rearview mirror. Frank turned on the engine, but kept the lights off. It was important to strike now, before she reached the warehouse, before she had the advantage of being on her territory. She passed the van, and Frank slowly pulled off. He quickly picked up speed, closing the gap between the two vehicles. As she slowed to turn into the warehouse gates, Frank pushed his foot flat to the floor, but as he did so, the dark voice inside shouted a warning. Too late. A pickup truck flew out of one of the side alleys and tore into the side of Castle's van, sending him hurtling into the wall.

The loud crash caused Grace to swerve as she looked round in surprise. A crash right behind her, no more than a few meters away. She started to slow, before she realised that the last thing she wanted was anyone seeing her in this area. She carried on, and pulled into the warehouse parking area, never taking a second backward glance. As she stepped out of the car, she thought she heard a gunshot. What the hell was going on, a gang war? Typical, today of all days. She fled into the warehouse.

Frank pried his head from the steering wheel, wiping the blood from his nose. That was unexpected. The door was buckled, but a firm kick knocked it open. Movement from the pickup caught Frank's eyes. A tattooed thug with an assault rifle stumbled from the drivers door; this looked more than just a typical case of New York road rage. Frank quickly moved in and grabbed the man's gun, spun it round before the man could react and squeezed the trigger. He turned to follow Grace into the warehouse, when three other cars appeared, screeching to a halt just before him. The cars spewed out a stream of goons, all armed, all between him and the warehouse. The first bullet ricocheted off the pickup beside him, as Frank dived for cover, keeping the rifle from the recently deceased thug. Frank aimed under one of the cars and fired, the darkness nodding with approval as one of the gunmen fell to the floor as his feet were ripped from underneath him. Frank tried to get to his van, and his armoury, but a barrage of bullets blocked the path and he retreated back behind the pickup. Frank stood up and took another shot, taking out another of the thugs, but was forced behind cover again, pinned down by a stream of automatic fire. Frank opened the door, looking for anything that might give him an edge. A fuel can in the floor well caught his eye.

Three of the men huddled close together behind one of the cars. "Do you think I got him with that last shot? We haven't heard anything since then."

"You honestly think you might have shot the Punisher? Get real Mike."

"He's only human."

"Well, you go and check on him then."

"Maybe I will..."

Mike got no further when he was interrupted by a flaming fuel can arcing over the cars, heading straight for them. "Dive, it's going to explode!" The thugs leapt in terror from cover, where they were quickly picked off by Frank. The fuel tank hit the tarmac, where, rather than exploding, it burnt furiously but harmlessly in the metal container.

Frank dropped the assault rifle and unholstered two berettas. Firing furiously, Frank broke away from cover and leapt onto the second vehicle, a 4x4, shooting the two thugs who were cowering behind it then dropping back in time to avoid the shots from behind the third and final car. An endless wave of bullets prevented Castle from progressing. Frank slipped into the 4x4, and turned on the engine. Quickly putting it into gear, Frank spun the car around and accelerated. The five remaining gunmen stood, firing shot after shot at the retreating car. When he was sufficiently far away, Frank turned the car again, so it was facing the hapless crooks. Frank revved the engine, and the shooting ceased as realisation dawned. The car erupted forward, as the thugs panicked. Two thugs sought shelter behind the car, one firing haphazardly at the rapidly approaching car, whilst the second cowered behind the front tyre. The other three fled toward the warehouse. As the second reached the door and was through, he turned and shut the door behind him, fastening it securely as his accomplice screamed in vain the other side. He managed to take three steps before the 4x4 tore through the doors, and flattened the fleeing thug.

Frank stepped out of the car, and surveyed the carnage. Two of the men were sandwiched between the car they had sought cover behind and the wall. A third had been thrown aside by the car, whilst the fourth was still attached to the front of the 4x4, vainly fighting for life even as his lungs filed with blood. A bullet to the head sped up the process.

Frank found himself in an old locker room. A large shutter door stood opposite him, whilst a staircase lay to his right, a dusty sign proclaiming the location of the offices. Frank cautiously approached the staircase. At the base of it he found the fifth thug. Half of his face was obliterated by a shotgun blast. The sixth sense pointed to the floor. Frank knelt next to the body, and observed the trip wire that had been set off by the unfortunate crook. Looking up, Frank made out the carefully concealed shotgun. He'd been here before, but against much more skilled opponents. The Vietcong had grown most adept at concealing their traps, and Frank had lost many fellow soldiers to them. Compared to that this should be childs play, but caution would still be needed. Frank proceeded carefully up the steps, the darkness urging caution. At the top, a large door stood shut. Examining it closely, Frank noticed a small catch at the top, which he carefully pulled. The door creaked open and Frank pushed on, noticing the cables leading to the door handle, electrifying it. Not the most hospitable welcome ever. The offices looked as though they had been untouched for the best part of a decade; old crooked desks covered in dust, webs spun from cheap bookcases. Toward the back of the room, something was different. A door stood proud, with reinforced hinges and a brand new lock. The door was open. As Frank slowly stepped across the floor, he felt the floorboard drop down almost imperceptibly, and Frank didn't have to wait for his sixth sense to kick in before he threw himself to the side, and another shotgun blast erupted from the darkness. Clearly, Walmart must have had an offer on the shotguns. Picking himself up, Frank approached the open door and peered inside.

The first thing that struck Frank was the stench, an overwhelming concoction of human waste and terror. The walls and floors were completely cushioned, as though from a mental hospital. In the centre of the room, a figure crouched, secured in a striaight jacket, chainned to the floor. As Frank stepped forward, the figure slowly glanced up, their head tilted to one side. Through the long matted hair, Frank could make out the face of a young woman. Her eyes, dark and empty, looked at Frank, looked through him. Her voice was quiet, lifeless. "Are you here to kill me?"

The darkness tapped him urgently on the shoulder. The sound of a gun being cocked sent Frank moving, rolling smoothly to the side, but the gun was already being fired. Bullets ripped into Frank's back, dropping him to the floor. Frank felt his blood, warm, familiar, seeping from his body. The dark voice urged him to get up, stand up, and kill whoever it was that had shot him, demanding death. However, all Frank could see was the empty eyes of the woman in the straight jacket. She'd recoiled as Frank was shot, and now as their eyes met, Frank could see tears starting to form, as she whispered "I'm so sorry."

Someone was appproaching from behind. Frank reached for his gun, but found it kicked away, far out of reach. He looked up to see Grace smiling down at him. "Hello Mr Castle. How are you?"

The kick was deceptively strong, and Frank coughed up blood as the blow made contact with his face.

"Not so good I guess. I see you've met Lisa."

Frank looked again to the restrained woman. So this was Lisa, who Frank had believed to be the Open Throat killer. He thought back to when he'd investigated her house. The map of all the victims, the notes. Grace smiled, as Frank worked things out. "Poor little Lisa. When her sister Jessica was killed, she was quite inconsolable. In the end, she ended up driven to revenge. Very successful she was too."

Breathing was becoming more difficult for Frank, his words coming forth broken and staggered. "You kidnapped her, kept her here all this time. You set her up."

"I suppose. But I prefer to see it as me giving her justice. Without me, the gang who killed her sister would've still been free. Now they've paid the price. She should be thanking me. You should be thanking me."

Frank spat blood at her feet. Grace shrugged "Just as well I didn't do it for the gratitude."

"You were just covering your tracks."

Grace raised her voice, shouting at Frank. "They were all killers Frank, killers! Who the hell are you to judge me?"

"You're not fooling ... anyone."

"Common thugs, everyone of them." Grace caught her breath, composed herself, before continuing. "Six months ago, Tony phones me up, out of the blue. Hadn't heard a word from him in years. Say's he's hard up, that he needs some cash, he knows I'm good for it. I hesitate, before I can take a breath he threatens to tell the world about our dirty little secret. I have a life Frank, you remember what that is? A husband, a home, a good job. I worked hard for that. Next week, I become vice president of the company. But as long as the old crew were out there, I was never going to be more than a phone call away from losing it all. What sort of life is that?"

"More than.. you deserve. You killed eight people."

Grace frowned. "Seven people Frank, please try and keep up. Tony, Nick, Jamie, Charlene, Daryl, Pete, Jason. It hardly compares to your body count. You saw them Frank. A bunch of nobodies, parasites living off others. I wasn't going to lose everything I'd worked so hard for to them. "

"You forgot Wilson."

"Wilson? Who the hell's Wilson? Don't tell me the press has got it right and you have actually lost it?"

Frank thought back to the night he'd found Wilson's body, the criminal who claimed to know who the Open Throat killer was. He'd been killed before Frank could speak to him. It made sense at the time that the Open Throat killer was behind it, covering their tracks. The hooker had seen the killer said they had long hair, riding a red motorbike. Couldn't even be sure if it was a man or woman. There was no reason for Grace to deny it now. which led on to an obvious question.

Grace continued her rant, ignoring the confusion on Frank's face. "It was practically an act of kindness; I was putting them out of their misery."

Frank laughed, even though it felt like razor blades running down his throat. Grace added to the pain, giving him an angry kick in the ribs. "What's so funny big guy?"

"Reminds me of a joke. What's the difference between you and God?"

Frank paused, more to wipe the blood from his mouth than for effect. "God doesn't think he's you."

Frank chuckled, while Grace scowled momentarily, before breaking into a chuckle herself. "I guess that is pretty funny. Now, let's just see how godlike I am."

She strode over to Lisa, who was curled up in the corner, and pointed the gun to her head, the barrel pressed tight against her skin. "What do you think Frank? God to god. Maybe you managed to kill her after she shot you? Or maybe she committed suicide, consumed with guilt. Which sounds better to you?"

Frank tried to move, but his body didn't respond. He looked down, saw the blood forming a dark pool. Not like this, surely? Frank dropped his head, unable to hold it up anymore. He closed his eyes, as everything faded away.

The Punisher opened his eyes, feeling the primal strength surging through his veins. The darkness, death personified, glared up at Grace, She looked back, confused, her own inner darkness warning her that something was very, very wrong. "Frank?"

"Frank Castle is dead." He leapt up with a snarl, flying toward Grace. "I am The Punisher."

Grace fired wildly at Punisher. She managed to get two bullets off, which thudded into the Punisher's chest, but did nothing to slow him down. In an instant, he was right in front of her. He grabbed hold of her gun, throwing it out of reach, and brought his hands up to her neck, lifting her off her feet. She lashed out, her fists and feet pummeling into The Punisher's body, fighting for her life, but to no avail. She may as well have been hitting the air. Briefly, fear flashed across her face, but it was quickly replaced by defiance. "You go ahead, kill me. But you better go ahead and kill yourself as well. You're the same as me, Frank, you're nothing more than a killer. Look at yourself. You're sick. You enjoy killing even more than I do."

"You killed those people, just to protect yourself. You would kill an innocent woman, just so you can have a promotion. There is no pleasure, only justice. I am Death. You are nothing like me."

He broke her neck, before letting her body drop to the floor.


	13. Chapter 13

Grace's body fell lifelessly to the ground as Frank released his grip, and the shadows retreated into the corner of his mind. The room began to blur, and Frank dropped to his knees. His hands traced the wounds in his chest, and came back to his face, thick in blood. The job was done, and now that the killing was all finished the dark strength abandoned him, like a broken tool, crushed and useless. He coughed, and barbed wire ran up his throat. In the far distance, someone was shouting. Frank fell to the floor, his face cracking into the cold concrete. His eyes struggled to focus, before he made out Lisa. Her mouth was opening, but Frank couldn't hear anything. He tried his best, but the sound was vague, far away. Despite the pain, Frank couldn't help but smile. At least she was okay. He had killed a lot of guilty people over the years, more than he could count, but at the end of the day you could never bring back the innocent lives lost, no matter how hard you tried. Frank knew he was dying; he's seen it happen to enough other people to know what it looked like. But at the end of the day, it didn't seem like it was such a bad deal. An old, tired man dies, and someone deserving gets a second chance. Without medical care, Frank was facing the final curtain, and he was ready, as long as she was okay. The lights faded into dark, just as Frank made out what Lisa was saying: 'Behind you.'

* * *

Joel hobbled around the bodies, surveying the carnage around him. Although Joel's men had been dispatched to the warehouse before the first 911 call was even made, when the police found the first booby trap they had to fall back. Only once the bomb squad had come in and cleared the warehouse were they able to proceed. There were ten gang members scattered around the perimeter of the warehouse, mostly victims of gunfire, apart from the one that had been sandwiched between the SUV and a wall of rubble. Once Joel stepped inside, that's when things got really creepy. The bomb squad had disarmed six traps, all crudely assembled yet brutally effective. There was no doubt that these had been designed to maim and kill, not scare. As Joel was admiring the handiwork, a rookie came running out of the office and rushed to the window, his face pale and green. Joel raised an eyebrow, and stepped through the open door and into the office.

If hell had an odour, Joel thought it would smell something like this. To the left lay a makeshift padded cell, little more than an animal's cage. The stench of human waste, mixed with sweat and vomit, emanated throughout the office and turned Joel's stomach,to the point he considered joining the rookie by the window. On the right of the room, Grace's body lay. In the midst of all this mayhem, the foul air, the despair, Joel thought that she should have looked more out of place, with her tailored suit and manicured nails. However, as she lay there, looking perfect, save for the unnatural angle of her neck, Joel couldn't shake the thought that she looked right at home.

Directly in front of Grace's body, a large pool of blood had formed, but there was no sign of any body. Frank Castle had gone. Pulling out his phone, Joel was wondering how he was even going to begin explaining this to Captain Henry. It wasn't going to be fun.

It would be three days before a lowly officer in the office would notice that all the vehicles were linked to the deceased apart from one; a red, Honda motorbike, registered to a fake name and address.

* * *

The bright light at the end of the tunnel was expected, but the strong stench of alcohol came as a surprise to Frank. Did that mean he was in heaven, or hell? Frank tried to sit up and felt pain shoot through every fibre in his body. Hell it was. As the world slowly starting sliding back into reality, things started making more sense. The bright light was a makeshift spotlight; the cold surface he was lying on turned out to be some sort of workbench. Bandages were keeping his major organs in place, and seemed to be well applied. The room appeared to be a basement, complete with a washing machine in the corner.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr Rook." A tall man stood at the doorway, smiling amiably. "You appear to be a very lucky man."

Frank tried yet again to sit up, and with gritted teeth finally succeeded, as the man continued. "It's a miracle that you're still breathing Mr Rook, let alone standing. I humbly suggest that you conserve your strength."

"You're a back street surgeon?"

"It's truly a relief to see that your mental faculties haven't been impaired. Yes, I have been described as such. Personally I prefer to be thought of as someone who provides an enhanced service whilst maintaining my client's privacy."

"A Mafia doctor?" Frank's voice dropped an octave, taking on a more threatening tone.

"A good Samaritan. Besides Mr Rook, people in glass houses ought to be careful with their bullets. If your friend had taken you to a traditional hospital, your bullet inflicted wounds and your identity would have certainly provoked far more than a raised eyebrow."

It was Frank's turn to raise an eyebrow. "A friend?"

"Why Mr Rook, you are a man of few words, yet many questions. How very different we are." The doctor chuckled quietly to himself. "Yes Mr Rook, a friend, at least I presume he was. Call me cynical, but I know of few men that would pay two thousand dollars to save a strangers life." The doctor acknowledged Frank's look of surprise. "Yes yes Mr Rook, two grand. What I lack in a medical license, I more than make up for in selective ignorance. Patients, even those resembling famous, most wanted vigilantes, are immediately forgotten."

Frank shared the doctors cynicism of the human condition, but could think of no one living who could be remotely considered a friend. "What did this friend look like?"

The doctor sighed. "Mr Rook, I'm paid to not remember people's faces, not least your own." Frank's glare prompted the doctor to reluctantly continue. "He was a decidedly plain looking man, unremarkably tall and with long dark hair. That is really all I can tell you. Ring any bells?"

Frank admitted it didn't.

"How curious." The doctor shuffled to a corner where he poured himself a large brandy. "A drink? I wouldn't be much of a back street surgeon if I didn't have a drink problem; it's part of the job description. Lets toast, to the kindness of strangers."

"Anything else you can tell me about him?"

"He left this for you, when he paid your bill." The doctor handed Frank a folded sheet of paper, containing a handwritten note: 'The girl's safe. You owe me. A fan.'

Frank thanked the doctor before making his way out onto the sunny streets of New York. You always took a chance when you used a back street surgeon, but whatever the reason was for the loss of license, it wasn't lack of skill. Frank made a note of the address; a good doctor was worth their weight in gold. A pedestrian bumped into him, causing him to wince, partly at the pain, partly at the idea of traversing the crowded streets of New York with what felt like hot nails stuck in his chest. On paper, the mission had been a success: The killer was dead. Frank was more or less alive. Any other time that would've been enough, but this time was different. Wilson's murder was still a mystery; Grace had no reason to deny it, which left the suspect with long hair and the red motorbike. Now a long haired man had saved his life, dragging him off his death bed before paying the one sober (at the time) back street surgeon in the city $2,000 to patch him up. Stranger things had happened, but not this side of the Marvel universe.

Then of course there was Lisa. The last time Frank had seen her, she was in a straight jacket, chained up by a psychopath. The note from the mystery man said she was okay, but after everything that had happened, Frank needed a little more convincing, especially when he considered the last loose end: Grace hadn't been working alone. Someone had been controlling the police, using them to try and protect Grace, keeping Frank as far away from her as possible. That took power, influence. Someone with that kind of power wouldn't take losing well. This wasn't over yet.

* * *

Captain Henry cleared his throat, straightened his tie, then pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor. At the far end, two primates in ill fitting suits stood either side of a door, observing him impassively as he approached. Without a word, one thoroughly patted him down, while the other stoically watched on, his hand resting gently on his gun. Satisfied, the first thug nodded to his compatriot, who silently slid the door open. Henry had never met the Boss before; all communication had previously been carried out over a secure phone line. This time, he'd been summoned for a face to face meeting. There had been no question of refusing the request.

The office inside spoke of subtle intimidation: A well known work of art hung on the wall, suitably obscure enough to not appear ostentatious, but nonetheless indicative of immense wealth. Furthermore, an informed observer would recognise it as a piece that had been stolen from a Californian gallery six months previously. Henry gulped. The focal point of the room was an exquisitely carved desk. Flanking the desk, two stocky men in suits brandished automatic rifles. Behind the desk sat the infamous Marcus Bond. He was a tall, sharp faced man. In his youth he had never been particularly handsome, at least not in the conventional sense, but age had brought an added strength to his stern features. He was impeccably dressed, as was his custom, in a tailor fitted suit. His face was stone, betraying nothing. In the silence that filled the room, Henry was suddenly aware of just how dry his throat was. Eventually, Marcus spoke, in a smooth yet heavy voice. "What went wrong Henry?"

Henry swallowed hard, and struggled visibly to speak. "It appears that the Punisher had tracked Grace to the warehouse in the Warrens. As soon as we heard from your men, I had every available unit despatched to apprehend him, but by the time they arrived at the scene it was all over. There was nothing that could've been done. Sir."

Marcus brought his hands up to his face, clasped together as though in prayer. "I distinctly recall you saying that the vigilante wouldn't be a problem. You said you had a man who was going to take care of him."

Henry coughed nervously. "I did, sir. He tried, but the Punisher had the drop on us. By the time we knew what was going on it was too late."

Marcus stood up slowly, like a snake uncoiling. "My wife is dead. Dead. And all I'm hearing are empty excuses." His voice raised as his anger grew. "Nobody steals from me. Nobody!" Marcus paused, attempting to regain some composure. "Somebody has to pay." He pushed a button and spoke into the intercom. "Have Tommy sent in."

Almost immediately, a muscular man in a designer suit strode into the room. He carried himself heavily, as though his sheer mass made movement difficult. His neck bulged under the collar, looking like it would cause the shirt to burst open at any moment. His face had a scowl that appeared to be chiselled on, until he glanced at Henry, at which point his lips curled into a shark-like smirk. Marcus spoke as the man took his place alongside him. "Tommy here is my head of security. He has acted as my eyes and ears faithfully for the past five years. Tommy, explain to us please what went wrong."

Tommy grunted, then spoke with a voice like sandpaper. "Their operation was a complete joke. The cops were practically tripping over themselves. An idiot could've got past them. Their plan was flawed from the beginning. I'd say that the absolute lack of organisation, coupled with totally insufficient preparation, all but guaranteed the operation's failure."

Marcus nodded thoughtfully. The blood was already draining from Henry's face when Marcus opened a desk drawer and casually pulled out a gun. "Doesn't sound too good to me Henry, what do you think?"

Henry had seen guns before. He'd had a couple pointed at him. It went with the job. This, however was different. Henry knew, with an unexplainable certainty, that his fate was already decided. He glanced at Marcus' eyes, and saw nothing but death. He took a deep breath, as the predator appraised him carefully. "You see Henry, at the end of day, Tommy is my head of security." His voice dropped a notch. "He's the one who I made responsible for my wife's safety."

Without flinching, Marcus turned and fired the gun. The bullet lodged itself just below Tommy's kneecap, and the big man dropped to his knees, speechless with shock. Marcus stepped toward him, grabbed his hair and yanked his head up, forcing the wounded man to look at him. "You really screwed up bad Tommy. I entrusted you with a simple, straightforward task. Yet, while you were high in a strip club, with some hooker dancing in your lap, my wife had her neck broken. You failed me, completely. You've been at my side for five years Tommy. You know better than anyone; I don't tolerate failure. Someone always has to pay."

Marcus brought the gun up to Tommy's forehead. Tommy started hyperventilating, rapidly muttering half forgotten prayers to any deity that would listen. As the giant sobbed uncontrollably, Marcus pulled a phone from his pocket, flipped it open and held it out to him. "Five years Tommy. Five years. It still counts for something. You've earned the right to say your goodbyes. It's ringing." In a daze, Tommy took the phone, and heard his wife's voice answer the phone. He closed his eyes as his lip quivered. "Marissa."

"Tommy? Is that you?"

Tommy swallowed hard. "Heya Love, it's me."

He heard his wife's chuckle. "Tommy? It's not like you to phone me from work. Is everything all right?"

Tommy thought briefly over all his mistakes, all the times he'd neglected her, all the times he hadn't made time for her, all the times he'd cheated on her. "Marissa... I'm so sorry." He stole a glance up at Marcus, who watched him with no discernible emotion, the gun still tight against his head. He took a deep breath, accepting his fate. "I'm really sorry Marissa, but I won't be able to make it home tonight. I just wanted to tell you..."

That was as far as Tommy got before the shot rang out and the phone dropped to the floor. Marcus knelt down and picked it up, and spoke softly. "Alex? Yes, it's Marcus. Everything taken care of?... Very good, tidy up and then head back to the office."

He put the phone away, then turned back to the shell shocked Tommy. "I lost my wife. You lost yours." He waved a hand to the two bodyguards, who picked up the broken man under the arms and dragged him away. Marcus spoke on as they neared the door. "You'll leave the city tonight. If I hear that you ever come back, if I even hear your name mentioned, I'll have everyone you've ever known tortured to death, before I skin you alive and feed you to the dogs." He addressed the two thugs for a moment. "Make sure he understands. Once you're sure he has got the point, cut off his ears and let him go." The thugs nodded in unison, as they dragged the man through the doors.

The last thing Henry could see was the expression on Tommy's face, just as he disappeared from view. The man was a ghost: expressionless, emotionless, dead in every way that mattered, except that his heart was still beating.

Marcus turned to face Henry, drawing him back into the horrifying reality from which he had become curiously detached. After another eternity, Marcus shrugged casually, and sat down behind his desk. "He failed me absolutely Henry. Death would have been too easy for him. I don't tolerate failure. So, Henry, I know you'll listen very carefully to what I now say. You're going to find the Punisher. You're going to bring him to me, so I can show him why nobody steals from me."

Henry felt his insides twisting like a living creature. For the first time in his life, he felt powerless. Marcus continued, his face breaking into an aggressive sneer. "Then, after many weeks, when he has felt all the pain it's possible for a man to feel, only then will I let him find the release of hell. I promise you, I will kill the Punisher."


End file.
